


His Ganymede

by evilmaniclaugh



Series: Mythologies [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Support, Friends to Lovers, Injuries in Battle, M/M, Mild references to D/s, Pre-Series, Savoy, Siege Warfare, classical literature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7026763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre series to mid season two. Jean Armand de Treville and Adrien d’Athos, Comte de la Fère, are young soldiers serving in the Gardes Françaises. Under command of General Crillon, the army is entrenched around the besieged city of Amiens. In desperation the Spanish are forced to attack and the French are victorious taking back the city. Both sides suffer many casualties, amongst them Adrien d’Athos. Temporarily relieved from duty, Treville is ordered to accompany his wounded friend back to his home, the Chateau La Fère and on arriving there he meets someone who will have an extraordinary impact on his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChicotFP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChicotFP/gifts).



> Totally inspired by FromPella's amazing prompt on Tumblr. She also did the gorgeous artwork.

  


* * *

Knee deep in mud, Treville prayed that the Spanish would be forced to give in soon. It was an honour to serve in the Gardes Françaises and he appreciated it most of the time, but with the endless torrents of rain and ever worsening conditions here in Picardy it was hard to keep spirits raised.

“Not long now, mon ami,” said a voice from beside him. “They will attack soon. They must be starving inside the city walls after all this time.”

Adrien d’Athos had joined des Essarts’ company at the same time as Treville. Neither of them had been as proficient as they’d thought with swords and had laughed together at their hopeless first attempts at combat training. This had proved to be the forging of a firm friendship and was the one thing that had kept Treville going during the dark days of war.

“To think we are Catholics fighting Catholics under the banner of a King who is a Protestant at heart,” chuckled Athos. “The idea of it is ludicrous.”

“Right now I’d fight anyone to get to a bath house,” muttered Treville. 

“I’d fight anyone if it meant the chance of going home,” said Athos in an unusually downbeat tone. “I miss my son.”

Treville found it a never ending source of mystery that his friend was a family man. They were both still in their early twenties and he couldn't, for the life of him, comprehend how it must feel to be shackled to another person at such a young age. “How old is your boy?” he asked.

“He’s five,” said Athos, smiling with paternal pride. “I haven’t laid eyes on him for almost a year. I pray he hasn’t forgotten who I am.”

“If you miss him so much then why serve with the Guards?”

“It is an honour,” said Athos earnestly, echoing Treville’s own thoughts. “And it is my duty as a nobleman to protect the King. At least I am entitled to return to my home at La Fère when I am not needed in battle.” He looked skyward at the greying clouds. “If that ever happens.”

“It will, mon frére,” said Treville, glad that he only had the one life to lead. The military was his career and his passion. For him there would be no stepping back into a world of domesticity, but then he was not landed with the responsibility that came from having a title. “The boy still has his mother.”

“Not often,” said Athos. “My wife serves as a lady of honour and is away at court most of the time. Olivier has his tutors to guide him and we have ensured that they are the best.”

Treville felt a wave of sympathy for the small boy. It sounded a rather lonely existence, although with no one to discipline him he expected that Athos’ child had become an almighty horror.

Another day passed, and another and yet another and still they were entrenched in this hopeless situation. 

“The rain must give up soon,” said Treville.

“Or the Spanish,” smiled Athos, smoothing a hand through thick, dark hair, that was at present greyed prematurely with mud. “God willing. I wonder who’s in command of them now that Carrero is dead? “

“I don’t care.” Treville shrugged. “Whoever is chosen we will kill him when he comes for us.”

“Which may be quicker than we thought,” said Athos at the sound of a bugler. “They are finally advancing, Jean.” He turned to look at Treville and his eyes were shining with excitement.

“Prepare to fire,” came the order from Captain des Essarts.

“Remember that family of yours and keep your head down,” muttered Treville. They were both excellent soldiers by now--the best in their company--but Athos had a tendency to get carried away in the heat of battle, hasty in his decision making.

With the artillery firing over head and the pounding of the earth as the cannon balls thundered down it was a vision straight from Hell. There were screams of anguish as the lines of Spanish troops were decimated and still the French held their position, firing round after round from their muskets, reloading with speed and efficiency. General Crillon was proving himself an excellent commander and a tactical genius and Treville hoped that one day he could emulate him.

Finally the order came to march on Amiens and with swords raised the company followed their banner and went into battle, slaughtering the weakened Spanish as they pushed forward to retake the town.

With Athos beside him Treville had never felt more proud, or more certain of victory. Together they could do anything. It was one stray musket ball that put paid to that idea and he turned at the strangled cry of pain from beside him to see his friend fall at the last. He stopped to assist, but Athos waved him on.

“Do your duty. Drive the Spanish off. I will survive this,” he ordered.

With a heart that was filled with anguish, Treville tore through the remaining ranks of the enemy soldiers, desperate to finish this and return to his friend’s side. The call of the bugler loud in his ears he continued to fight on, brought to a halt by his commander, Captain des Essarts. 

“It is over, Lieutenant. The Spanish have been routed and their general captured. You need to organise a party to bring the wounded back to the hospital tents.”

“Yes, sir,” said Treville, thinking only of his injured friend.

The Comte de La Fère lay where he had fallen, his leg a bloody mess.

“Will I lose it, Jean?” he asked as the stretcher bearers carried him through the wasteland of battle grounds to one of the huge hospitals that had been established during the siege. “Don’t let them take my leg.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Treville, gripping his hand tightly. “Is there fever in the tents?”

One of the young lads answered him, his expression too severe for a child who could be no more than fourteen years of age. “Always,” he said. “But they suffer less in this one, if that is any comfort.”

The stench from inside the canvas was vile and Treville had to fight staunchly to stop himself from heaving up the contents of his stomach. “See to him quickly,” he said as Athos was placed on the trestle table that was dripping with other men’s blood. “He is the Comte de la Fère.”

“Bite down on this,” said the surgeon and a wad of material was shoved into Athos’ mouth.

The man cut away the material of his breeches and examined the wound. “He’s lucky,” he said, looking at Treville. “The musket ball can be removed without too much difficulty. After that it will depend on whether or not putridity sets in.”

Treville watched as the surgeon worked, scalpel blade slicing through skin and muscle and digging out the lead.

“He would be better off away from here,” said the man, wiping his hands on his blood stained apron. “He may have a chance of survival that way. Take him home if you can.”

Having obtained the agreement of the company commander, Treville did just that, loading Athos onto the bed of a small supply cart and driving them southwards in the direction of Paris to the estates of La Fère. 

Athos was rambling and whether it was the result of trauma, fever or the wound turning bad Treville had no idea. Intent on getting his friend to safety, he drove onwards, stopping only to feed Athos brandy from a flask and to help him relieve himself when necessary.

By the time they arrived at the village of Piñon, Athos had fallen silent and Treville was shaking with exhaustion. The townsfolk were helpful, supplying him with bread to keep him going and directions to the chateau.

“I know which physician the Comte employs,” said the innkeeper. “I will send word and ask him to attend.”

“Thank you,” said Treville as he geed on the horse and then set off down the track.

It was dusk when he finally arrived at the Chateau La Fère which was not the grand palace he had been dreading. More country house than mansion, it was wide and low, set within lawned grounds and flanked by a row of poplar trees that stood to attention like guards.

“We need your help,” he shouted, climbing down from the cart and banging on the entrance with both fists, weary to the point of collapse.

The doors creaked open and a middle aged woman glared out at him, a set of keys dangling from her belt. The housekeeper, Treville presumed.

“I have brought your master home,” he explained. “He has been wounded in battle. The surgeons have seen to him but he is unwell. A doctor has already been sent for from the city.”

“And you are?”

“I am M de Treville, fellow soldier and friend of the Comte. We served together at Amiens.”

“Albert,” the housekeeper shouted. “His Lordship is home. Help me carry him upstairs. “

“I can do it,” said Treville.

“You, Sir, are dead on your feet. Charlotte will show you to the servants’ hall and fetch you some food and wine.”

Too tired to argue, Treville was led through the house and into a large room. After bringing him some roast meat and bread, the housemaid built the fire and then lit the kindling. “Mme Jaccard says I am to prepare you a bath in the kitchen. She says you are too filthy for elsewhere.”

Despite everything Treville smiled. He suspected that the housekeeper had not intended the young girl to impart this final sentence. It was, however, no lie. He’d not seen clean water for months.

The food was simple and nourishing, but the tub of hot water was a delight. Not giving a damn about dignity, he stripped out of his dirty clothes and cast them aside in the direction of the footman. If you can have them cleaned soonest I’d be grateful,” he said, his tone of voice signifying that this was an order rather than a request.

“Yes, sir,” said the lad. “Mme Jaccard told me to give you these,” he said, placing a pile of clothing on the table.

“How is the Comte?” asked Treville, sinking into the water with a sigh of relief.

“I am told he is sleeping,” said the footman, taking the dirty uniform and boots and then departing.

Getting out of the bathtub only when the water had grown too cold to bear, Treville dressed in Athos’ clothes, nonplussed by the richness of the material. Fine linen was a luxurious experience compared to the cotton chemise he normally wore. The breeches were expensively cut and the jacket was well tailored, although not fitted for him. He would have to do without boots as the spare pair given to him did not fit, but his would soon be cleaned and it would not be too much of a hardship to wander such luxurious floors in stockinged feet.

“It’s late,” said Mme Jaccard, lighting a candle. “I will show you to your room.”

“How is the Comte?” asked Tréville. “I will not rest until I know how he is faring.”

“See for yourself,” said the housekeeper, opening a door ahead of her.

Sconces on the walls were lively with light, a fire burned in the hearth and nestled under the bed covers lay Athos, pale and bright eyed but awake.

“You brought me home, Jean. How can I ever repay you for this kindness?”

“Get well,” said Treville in a gruff voice. “It’s all that I ask of you.”

“I will for certain now that I am here,” said Athos, his eyelids fluttering closed.

“You did us a kindness and we thank you for it,” said Mme Jaccard as she showed Treville to his chamber. “His Lordship is a good master.”

This bedroom was as well appointed as Athos’ own and, undressing to his braies, Treville felt much like a lord as he climbed into the ornate bed and slid between clean sheets. It was blissful lying here in the darkness, listening to nothing but the crackle of the fire, and he wanted to stay awake to enjoy this luxury, but, as exhausted as he was, that would soon prove impossible.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful art is by FromPella who's on Tumblr [HERE](http://frompella.tumblr.com/).

  


* * *

“This is the life, Charlotte,” said Treville, smiling at the housemaid as she brought in a breakfast tray and made up the fire. “I am not used to such things. A soldier’s world is full of hardship.”

She kept her eyes locked on his face, ignoring the sight of his bare chest. “Mme Jaccard says you are to be treated exactly the same as his Lordship whilst you are staying at La Fère.”

“I am truly grateful for that,” said Treville. “Please tell her so.”

“I will do, Sir.” 

Charlotte bobbed her head, leaving him in peace to feast on the fine selection of fare and Treville made the most of it, slathering bread with butter and honey and then washing this down with ale. He would have enjoyed his breakfast so much more had he been able to share it with Athos and found himself shovelling the food down his gullet, eager to finish up and discover the fate of his friend.

The ewer was filled with fresh water and a razor and soap had been left on the washstand for him. Standing in the light of the window, he skimmed the sandy bristles from face and neck, leaving himself free of beard and moustache. He was so young that the facial hair still grew in uneven patches -- a constant source of amusement to some of his fellow soldiers.

Ablutions finished, he dressed in the elegant clothes from yesterday, putting on his own polished leather boots that had been left outside the door by one of the servants. The upstairs of the house was quiet, but there was a buzz of activity coming from below and he made his way down to the ground floor, examining the portraits as he went.

“Good morning, Madame,” he said, greeting the housekeeper with a warm smile which was immediately returned. “Any news of Athos’ condition?”

“The physician is with his Lordship now,” she said. “You may accompany me to his rooms if you wish.”

“Thank you,” said Treville who wished this very much indeed.

The master’s chamber was as pleasant a place as it had been last night, but its occupant was not so happy. “Jean,” he said. “Tell this fool that if I am to get better then I need all my blood to remain inside me.”

The doctor looked rather suspiciously at the newcomer. “The wound his Lordship sustained is showing signs of putridity. I have poulticed it with sage and wormwood, but he is refusing any further treatment.”

Treville, who had seen more than enough blood loss at Amiens, agreed wholeheartedly with Athos. “Bleeding will not be necessary. Leave supplies of the medicinal herbs so that we can change the dressing often and you may be on your way.”

Athos looked gratefully up at him from the bed.

“Very well, sir.” The doctor carefully removed his spectacles. “As you wish, but if the humors are not treated then how can you expect the body to heal?”

“We will treat them with rest and good food,” said Mme Jaccard. “Would it be prudent for his Lordship remain in bed?”

“Yes,” insisted the doctor. “It is vital in order to prevent the wound from festering. I will return in a week’s time, unless I hear from you sooner, and we will talk again of leeches.”

Once housekeeper and doctor had departed and the two friends were left alone, Treville perched on the bed beside Athos, shocked that the man seemed so shrunken now that he was injured and out of uniform.

“Do you remember those stories our regimental sawbones used to regale us with?” Pain was clearly written on his face, but Athos was in good spirits nonetheless.

Treville shook his head. “I have no idea what you're talking about.” As far as he could remember the surgeon was barking mad.

“He said if a wound grew so bad that maggots invaded then all would be well and he could guarantee recovery.” Despite his suffering Athos smiled. “Fetch me some of the little blighters, will you?”

“You refuse leeches and yet beg for maggots,” laughed Treville. “You’re a strange man indeed.” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “I shall leave you to rest and keep myself occupied exploring your estate.”

“Before that, could you send word to Captain des Essarts?” said Athos. “Tell him that I wish you to remain here with me for the time being. I’m certain you need the rest as much as I do.”

Treville nodded. If the siege had been ongoing then he would have returned post haste, but with the battle won, it was a different matter. “I shall be grateful for it. Thank you.”

“Mme Jaccard will show you to my study,” said Athos, his eyelids shuttering.

Explaining the situation in a few succinct words, Treville waxed the letter and sealed it with the mark of de la Fère. In the background he could hear a vague chiming sound, discordant enough at times to make him cringe, and with the letter now in the possession of a housemaid he followed the musical notes and peered around the door into a vast drawing room. 

Seated at the harpsichord was a small boy, his expression one of grim determination as he carefully picked at the keys in stilted fashion. Next to him was a prim and rather proper fellow, his iron gray hair tied at his back by a velvet ribbon.

“No, Master Olivier,” the man cried at the sound of another wrong note, bringing a switch down sharply onto that errant left hand.

Treville was incensed that the music teacher could reprimand the small boy in such a vindictive way for making a simple mistake. He was not fond of children--having little experience and absolutely no time for them--but in this instance he was willing to step in and intercede.

“Good morning,” he said, entering the room and striding over to the musical instrument. “I am M de Treville and you must be Olivier. I am a friend of your father.”

The boy left his place at the harpsichord and stepped up to Treville, nodding his head and politely offering a hand in greeting.

“Bonjour, Monsieur. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

So formal, thought Treville. An adult in the body of a child. He shook that miniature hand and used the opportunity to study the boy, taking in green eyes and a dusting of freckles. There was something slightly fey about his looks -- a mischievous spirit waiting to be freed.

Olivier stared at his toes and then back up at Treville. “You are a soldier like my father?” he asked solemnly.

“I am indeed,” replied Treville, hunkering down until he was on the same level as the boy. “I brought him home after he was wounded in battle.”

“Mme Jaccard says I must let him rest before I see him,” said Olivier and his eyes widened with curiosity. “Was he a hero?”

“Of course,” said Treville, smiling at the little fellow. “As brave a soldier as you could ever imagine.”

“I knew he would be,” said Olivier, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Master Olivier, you are wasting time,” said the music teacher. “Your tutor will be here soon to take you for your formal studies. We must finish the piece.”

Before he left them to their lesson Treville removed the switch from the top of the instrument and with a frown of disapproval he snapped it in half, eliciting a look of surprised delight from the young Vicomte.

The grounds of the chateau were vast, spreading out in all directions as far as the eye could see. Beyond this the lands still belonged to the de la Fères, although these were worked by the peasant folk of Piñon, farming them for their seigneur.

Having explored as much as he could do on foot, Treville ordered a groom to tack up one of the horses and then set out on an expedition of discovery, marvelling that one man could own so much and yet seem like such an ordinary fellow. It was a credit to him.

After a lengthy ride around the countryside, going as far as the village and stopping off for a tankard of ale at the inn, Treville then returned to the chateau, famished and eager to sit down at the table and polish off a hearty luncheon.

“If Master Olivier wishes to dine with me he will be most welcome,” he said to the housekeeper.

“He still takes all his meals in the nursery,” she replied. “But perhaps it would be good for him to practice his table manners in front of a guest. I shall ask his Lordship this afternoon and see what he thinks of the idea.”

Once he had finished his solitary repast Treville set about exploring the house, most of which was as silent as the grave. It was tastefully furnished, the oak floors gleaming with beeswax, and he wondered what it must be like to inhabit such a mansion with no thought of the expense. From the look of things this family were of ancient lineage. Above the fireplace in the dining room hung an eye-catching sword, its silverwork beautifully wrought, the hilt encrusted with jewels. It was a true spectacle and something of obvious importance to the de la Fères.

Moving silently through the corridors, Treville ventured upstairs again in order to look in on Athos who was sleeping peacefully. He then followed the passageway along to the east wing of the house and there discovered a suite of nursery rooms. Watching from the doorway, he listened as the young Vicomte struggled with his declensions. Learning Latin at five years old was a ridiculous idea and from the bewildered expression on the boy’s face it appeared that he agreed wholeheartedly with this sentiment.

Once again, Treville felt obliged to come to his assistance. “I believe Master Olivier has had enough formal education for today,” he interrupted, striding into the room. “There is plenty to be learnt outside and some fresh air will do him good.” The child was sallow skinned from being cooped up for too long.

The tutor glared at Treville. “We are but halfway through our afternoon studies, Sir.”

“No,” replied Treville. “You are finished for the day. Whilst I am staying here I’ll be responsible for the remainder of his lessons.” He returned the man’s glare. “You may go.”

“I would prefer to hear his Lordship’s thoughts on the matter,” said the exasperated tutor. “The boy is his son after all.”

“The Comte will not thank you for troubling him when he is ill,” said Treville. If I were you I’d treat this as a spell of paid leave and be grateful.”

Huffing with annoyance, the man collected up his books and packed them away in a leather satchel. “Practice your Greek before our lesson tomorrow, Master Olivier,” he said as he stomped out of the nursery. “I expect you to know the next passage perfectly.”

“Oui, M Girard,” the boy replied. “Au revoir.”

Treville could see the tension leave Olivier. He let out a small sigh of relief, getting up from his chair and walking over to join him at the window.

“Merci, Monsieur,” he said, taking hold of Treville’s hand and leading him away from the nursery as if he couldn’t wait to be free of the place.

“Are there any lessons you _do_ enjoy?” Treville smiled down at his small companion as they walked. 

“Fencing and riding,” replied Olivier seriously. “I’m going to be a soldier and serve in the Gardes Françaises, just like you and father.” He screwed his face up into a frown. “My mother is teaching me to dance. Why would I need to dance in order to fight?”

“Soldiering is not all about combat,” replied Treville. “There are many skills required to be a good captain.”

“And is dancing really one of them?” asked Olivier, his eyebrows raised suspiciously.

“Following orders certainly is,” chuckled Treville. “And if your mother wishes you to dance then dance you must.”

“I suppose so,” said Olivier. He looked up at Treville. “If you say so. Can I take you to see my favourite place?” 

“As long as it’s outside then the answer is yes,” said Treville, letting himself be dragged along the corridor and down the stairs by this small and rather determined boy. “You could do with some sunshine. You’re as pale as a ghost.”

“I have no one to play with,” said Olivier. “The servants are all too busy.”

“Well, I’m here now,” said Treville. “And I have nothing to do all day, so it’s your duty as host to entertain me.”

The little boy grinned, wide and infectious, and it was the first time Treville had seen him truly let go. It was an engaging sight. Perhaps all children weren’t as bad as he’d previously suspected.

Today was one of those perfect March days, Winter having conceded its hold on the year and handed it over to Spring. The sun shone down on the two adventurers as they marched across the lawns. To the right of them lay the formal gardens and lake, but Olivier was not interested in these and took Treville past them and into a patch of rambling woodland. The path was full of twists and turns, puddles and fallen branches lying as obstacles in their way, and the boy was moving at such a pace that Treville struggled to keep up with him. He may look sallow but he was without doubt a healthy child with a robust constitution.

“Here,” said Olivier as the path opened up to reveal a hidden glade within the woods. He ran towards the pond that lay at its heart and threw himself down on his belly, uncaring about the wetness of the long grass as he stared into the depths beyond.

More concerned about his own apparel, as it did not in fact belong to him, Treville sat on a newly fallen branch. “It’s very peaceful,” he said, almost able to forget the horrors of the battlefield.

Olivier remained mesmerised by the water. “I like these,” he said, pointing at the insects skimming over the area of the pond that wasn’t covered in lily pads.

“We call them water boatmen where I come from,” said Treville.

“I like that name,” replied Olivier and laughed again when a fish rose up from the depths and gobbled up the tiny creature. “No more boating for him.”

Treville smiled. The boy was possessed of both curiosity and a sense of fun that made him a pleasant companion.

“What is this?” asked Olivier.

Treville followed the line of his finger to the edge of the pond and looked at the clumps of jelly. “It’s frogspawn,” he answered. “The female has laid her eggs and now they are coming to the surface and waiting to mature.”

“They’re like little eyes staring at me,” said Olivier, poking at them with a stick.

“Leave them be,” advised Treville. “The ones with the dark centres are still alive, but not many of them will survive. The fish will enjoy eating them for dinner.”

Forgetting all about his borrowed finery he lay next to the child, watching the wildlife in this secret habitat. “Tomorrow, if the weather is suitable, we shall come down here with paper and charcoal and sketch all the creatures we can see. Would you like that?”

“I am not good at drawing,” admitted Olivier, a trifle nervously. “M Girard says there is no purpose to it.”

Treville skimmed a hand through the water. “It has as much purpose as music and theatre, or even dancing,” he added with a grin. “All the arts should be enjoyed. I suspect a lack of talent lies at the heart of your tutor’s disinterest.”

“Then I would like to do it,” said Olivier. “So that I may improve.”

In between flashes of merriment the boy was a solemn little soul. “Some things in life are there simply to be enjoyed,” said Treville, cupping up a handful of pond water and launching it at his young charge.

The boy looked startled at first then retaliated and before long the two of them were soaked. 

“Are you as old as my father?” asked Olivier once a truce had been called.

Treville grinned. Did he and Athos seem so very ancient when seen through the eyes of a child? “I am two years younger,” he said. “Your father is twenty three and I am twenty one.”

“I shall be captain of the Guard by time I am that old,” declared Olivier.

“Then in order to achieve such a goal we must also practice your combat skills,” said Treville. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

“Can we go and see Father now?” asked Olivier. “I would like to show him my new soldiers.”

“We must check first with Mme Jaccard,” said Treville, “but I can’t see why not.”

The child was a ball of energy, jumping up and running off before Treville had even climbed to his feet. “Olivier wait,” he shouted, unsure of which path to take and was relieved when his young charge returned for him.

“Sorry,” said Olivier as he raced off again, but this time Treville was astute enough to keep pace with him and was quite out of breath when they returned to the house and entered the servants quarters.

“Mme Jaccard, can we see my father?” asked Olivier, tugging at her skirts.

“He is awake and complaining of boredom so I think that would be an excellent idea.” She eyed both of them from head to toe. “Provided you wash those filthy hands and faces first.”

Lost to the memories of his own childhood, Treville felt a warm glow of happiness as he and the boy made themselves clean, sharing a bowl of water in the scullery.

“I declare you fit to be seen,” said Treville, drying small hands and cheeks on a cloth. Perhaps being a parent wouldn’t be such a dreadful task after all. Not with a son like this.

“And I you,” chuckled Olivier.

“Come on, you little rogue,” said Treville, taking him by the hand. “Let’s go and visit your papa.”

Once again Athos’ bedroom was saturated with light as if the walls attracted it and magnified its intensity. Treville peered cautiously around the heavy wooden door to make sure he was not disturbing his friend who was propped up in bed on pillows, a book resting on his good knee.

“Have you the energy for visitors, mon ami?”

“Of course,” said Athos eagerly and his face, when he caught sight of Olivier, was a picture. “My boy,” he said, holding out his arms. “Can this really be you? I left behind a baby and have returned to find a young man in his place.”

“It is me, Father,” said Olivier with a serious expression. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, my sweet child,” replied Athos wrapping both arms around him, kissing him on the top of his head and then placing him back down on the floor. 

“Is the war over?” asked Olivier. “Will you and M de Treville be staying here forever?”

Athos burst into laughter. “You like my friend Jean enough to keep him, eh?”

“Yes,” declared Olivier with a nod of the head.

“My precious boy,” said Athos, catching him in his arms once again. “The battle is won but not yet the the war. Still, we shall not be going anywhere until my leg heals, a process which may take several months.” 

“I am sorry you are not well, but I am also glad,” said Olivier, launching into a detailed description of what they had seen today down at the pond. “And tomorrow we are drawing the water boatmen and then we will be doing sword fighting,” he continued breathlessly. “Can I show you my new soldiers?”

“Of course,” said Athos. “Go fetch them and Jean and I will teach you all the military tactics we have learned from the battlefield.”

“Yes, Father,” said the little boy, already on his way out of the door.

“I have never seen him so lively,” said Athos and his face, although wan, was alight with happiness. “You are good medicine.”

“Olivier’s tutors are not the most playful of people,” said Treville.

“I know I should spend more time with him,” said Athos with a deep sigh. “But when I am not at war I am occupied with the running of the estate.”

“Make him a brother or sister,” advised Treville. “That way he will never be lonely.”

“If I ever see my wife again I will do just that.” Athos grinned as a miniature tornado re-entered the room, carrying with him a wooden box.

Treville lifted Olivier onto the bed and then placed the breakfast tray across Athos’ lap. “You can use this as a base for your theatre of war,” he said, watching as Olivier took his prized possessions out of the box, one by one, showing each piece to his father before carefully placing them on the wooden surface.

Intent on play, time passed quickly and it came as a shock when the maid arrived to light fire and candles then usher the visitors downstairs for dinner.

“Am I really allowed to eat in here?” Olivier asked Mme Jaccard, his eyes wide with astonishment as he sat at the dining room table. 

“Indeed,” said the housekeeper. “M de Treville suggested it and his Lordship thought it a good idea. You are too old for nursery life now.”

When seated, the child could barely see over the top of the table, and amused by his predicament Treville solved the problem by fetching stiff, button backed cushions from the settee and using them to raise Olivier up enough in order to eat his soup.

“Thank you,” he said as he picked up the spoon. 

The child was impeccable in his manners and, instilled with a need to rough him up around the edges a little, Treville passed him a slice of bread. “Dunk it in and gobble it down,” he instructed. “That’s how the soldiers eat in the mess.”

The months passed by all too quickly, a timeless quality about them as days melded together and Treville returned to childhood, his time taken up with Olivier. Together they practiced combat, Treville aiding him with his Latin as they did so, teaching him passages from the Aeneid as they play fought with dummy swords.

Olivier’s pony grew fat as it was put out to pasture. Instead of carting him around the paddock it feasted on meadow grasses whilst the boy progressed to horses, his skill admirable for a child of his age.

“Tell me about Troy,” he insisted, as they rode out towards Piñon.

“I’ll tell you in Greek,” said Treville. “That way it will serve as a double lesson.” He began to quote passages of his belovéd Homer, the story of the Iliad so evocative that his mind was full of images of those heroes and their battles.

Occasionally Olivier interrupted when he had lost the meaning, but this only encouraged Treville to continue, pleased that the boy was sharing in his enjoyment of this classic tale.

“Were you a scholar before the war?” asked Olivier when Treville’s mouth became too parched to continue his story.

“No. Far from it.” Treville laughed. “My father was a merchant in Gascony with aspirations to better himself. I was educated up to a point, but joined the army as soon as I could.”

“Like I am going to,”

“Like you are going to, my little soldier.”

When orders were received from Captain des Essarts instructing the two men that they were to return immediately to Paris, Treville felt oddly cheated. He had grown to think of this quiet paradise as his own. His room was filled with rough sketches of water boatmen and kingfishers. He had spent many an afternoon lying on his belly watching the spawn hatch and the tadpoles turn from tiny little wrigglers into froglets hunting for insects, laughing at Olivier’s attempts to catch them as they began to hop from lily pad to lily pad.

Today began as a day of present giving, although it was not anyone’s birthday. Fit and fully healed by this time, despite walking with a slightly uneven gait, Athos called Olivier over to his seat at the table. 

“I have a gift for you, my son,” he said, producing a small but exquisitely fashioned sword from behind his back. “Treville tells me that you have been dedicated at your lessons and have shown a healthy respect for weaponry. He assures me that you will look after this well and I trust him implicitly.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Olivier, drawing the sword from its scabbard and examining it with reverence before replacing it carefully into the sheath. “I shall only use it when you or M de Treville are here to teach me.”

“Perhaps you should add your fencing instructor to that list,” said Athos solemnly. “I’m afraid Jean and I have to leave here very soon. The King requires our attendance and we are honour bound to comply with his wishes.”

“I understand,” said Olivier in a small voice. “One day I will be able to fight at your side.”

“Keep up the practice and it will be sooner than you think,” said Treville, trying to bring some hope back to that sad little face. “We still have this afternoon left, Olivier. See what I have had made for us.”

He then revealed his own gift for the child -- a pair of neatly constructed nets, perfect for catching pondlife.

The boy’s face was transformed by a sudden smile. “Can we go now?” he begged. “Father, please may I miss lessons this once?”

“I will teach him more of the Iliad whilst we are catching frogs,” Treville assured his friend.

“Then how can I say no,” laughed Athos. “Bring me back some legs for supper.”

“These frogs are not edible,” said Athos seriously. “They would not taste good.”

As usual, the weather gods were kind to them, and by the time they were ready to set out the early morning drizzle had cleared away to sunshine. Armed with equipment, the two naturalists made their way down to the pond where Treville sat at the water’s edge, dipping his net into the murky depths without any true intent to steal Olivier’s thunder and be the first to catch one of the little creatures.

In contrast the boy was determined, wielding his weapon with all the gravitas of a pikeman as he went into battle against the army of frogs. Besieged within the confines of the pond, the enemy put up a good fight, but eventually Olivier was victorious, netting one of the young frogs and extracting it with far too much care, allowing it the opportunity to escape.

“No,” he cried in annoyance as the creature returned to the still waters of the pond, disappearing below the surface with a plop.

“Patience,” said Treville. “You’ve learned something from that, so use the knowledge wisely next time.”

A second attempt at capture caused Olivier to be careless in other ways, leaning out too far and tumbling into the water, ending up on the submerged shelf at the side of the pool where the frogs had originally laid their spawn.

“I’m all wet,” he said, staring up at Treville with those strange grey green eyes that were at present narrowed in frustration. 

“You are indeed.” He was a hilarious sight standing thigh deep in the water and bedecked in pond weed, but Treville restrained his laughter, offering him a hand and helping him out. “Have you had enough frogging for one day? Do you want to return to the house and get dry?”

“Never,” said Olivier, unfastening his jacket and discarding it along with shoes, stockings, and breeches. “I’m going to catch one before the day is out.”

Treville had always thought of the boy as determined, but he realised now there was a definite streak of stubbornness running through him, taking after his father in that regard. “Another lesson learned,” he said with a wry smile. “Stay away from the edge of the pond.”

Eventually, after several more failed attempts, Olivier was successful and once he had carefully placed the baby frog inside the bucket he raised both arms in victory.

“Now what?” said Treville, busy recording the moment in a series of sketches.

“Now I catch another,” said Olivier.

“Put a little water in the bucket and draw this one first,” suggested Treville. “We don’t want to upset them. I feel we have all become firm friends over the summer.”

Olivier smiled shyly and followed Treville’s advice to the letter, making a rather unrealistic sketch of the tiny creature then carrying it back to the pond and placing it on a lily pad.

“Now you may catch another,” said Treville. “And perhaps see if there are any differences between that and the first.”

It was the happiest of days and as they returned to the house with empty buckets and full sketch books, Treville wondered how he would survive the unpleasant nature of the real world.

Next morning, at first light, the groom readied two horses and with the two soldiers back in uniform, sword belts strapped on and pistols anchored in place, they prepared to say goodbye. It was not an easy task. Olivier remained dry eyed but his mouth was pinched in sadness and although Mme Jaccard was holding his hand tightly and would always care for him as if he were her own, Treville hoped that the boy’s mother would pay him a visit before long.

“Au revoir, my little soldier,” he said, patting the child on the shoulder and then turning away hurriedly in order to swing up into the saddle. “I will see you soon.”

“Au revoir, mon fils,” said Athos and his eyes shone brighter than usual. “You be a good boy for Mme Jaccard. Jean and I will return before you know it.”


	3. Chapter 3

The signing of the Treaty of Vervins, in the early part of the following year, brought with it a change in circumstances that forced the two friends apart. War against Spain was over and Athos was no longer required to serve in the Gardes Françaises. Before returning to his duties as Comte, he embraced Treville as a brother.

“You are always welcome at La Fère, mon ami. It is as much your home as it is ours.”

Generally uncomfortable with displays of emotion, in this case Treville found it easy to return the affection. “Merci, my friend. I will not forget your generosity, or your kind invitation.”

“Be safe,” said Athos as he mounted his horse. “But then I do not have to worry for you are the wisest man I know.”

Being separated from Athos was a wrench, and Treville had been planning to visit La Fère as often as possible when an assassination attempt on King Henry altered everything.

“You are to organise a Royal guard to attend the King at all times,” said Captain des Essarts. “I am sorry to lose you, Treville, but I cannot think of a man better equipped for the job.”

The promotion was an honour and Treville was proud to be recognised, but from now on his life was no longer his own. He and his men accompanied the King everywhere, thwarting several attempts by Catholic and Protestant assassins to murder Henry. It seemed that, despite his good character, no one was pleased by their monarch. He would always be a Calvinist to some and a turncoat to others.

Treville thought often of his friends at the Chateau La Fère and for the first few months kept a correspondence going, but as time went by and his duties became more and more involved, the letters turned to a trickle and then dried up completely.

More than a decade passed by and when the worst happened and Henry was murdered by a Huguenot assassin, Treville was devastated. He had failed in his duty. The King was dead and he was held responsible for this by many at court. He was still charged with the safe keeping of the boy king, but found it impossible to deal with his mother, Marie de Medici, a woman of low intellect and questionable morals. Before long, after contradicting her decisions as regent once too often, he was dismissed and returned to des Essarts’ company with his tail tucked firmly between his legs.

“Do not feel so weighed down, “ ordered the captain. “You thwarted dozens of attempts on Henry’s life. You rarely left his side.”

“I am at a loss as to what I should do now, Sir,” admitted Treville.

“Take leave,” said des Essarts. “Go home and recuperate.”

“I am not sick,” said Treville.

“No, but you are exhausted and melancholic.” The captain patted him on the shoulder. “And neither of those things lead to good decision making or successful soldiering. Get some rest, young man.”

His own home was little more than an empty building, full of cobwebs and sad memories, and so in this time of trouble Treville turned to his dearest friend, hoping that years of absence had not destroyed the amity between them.

Writing a cautious letter to Athos he was delighted to receive an immediate reply back, the rider delivering it swiftly into his hands. It was, as he had longed for, a declaration of lasting friendship and a demand that he visit immediately and stay as long as he wished.

A warmth generated from within him and that feeling of melancholia, which had been a constant presence since he’d held the dying King in his arms, slowly dissipated. Postponing the journey until morning would have been the sensible option but Treville couldn’t wait. Packing a few possessions into saddle bags, he mounted his horse and rode northwards to La Fère.

It was sundown when he arrived at the chateau and he was greeted warmly by Mme Jaccard, looking a trifle plumper but not a day older than she had done twelve years ago. Handing the mare off to a groom and his belongings to a footman, he was about to enter the house when he heard hooves thundering across the lawn. 

The boy who dismounted the expensive looking steed had darker hair than Treville had pictured and his eyes were sharper in shade -- blue rather than green. He was small of stature, stockily built and seemed extremely young for his years. “Who are you?” he demanded in an arrogant tone of voice.

“I am an old friend of your father’s,” replied Treville, slightly disappointed at the way Olivier had turned out. “I visited here many years ago.”

“M de Treville,” came a voice from the doorway. “We have been expecting you. I will fetch Father immediately. “

The young man raced off before Treville could get a proper look at him, but he knew without doubt that this was Olivier.

“I am Thomas,” said the younger boy as they walked inside this much loved building that, despite just a single visit, felt like home to him. “You served with my father in the war?”

“I did,” said Treville. “Do you intend to join the army when you are older?”

Thomas shook his head. “The church,” he said. “I prefer to guide people spiritually rather than slaughter them in battle.”

“Master Thomas, go and get changed for dinner,” interrupted Mme Jaccard. “I’m sure M de Treville is in need of more refreshment and less chatter.”

The effects of the long ride now firmly establishing themselves in his legs, Treville was about to accompany the housekeeper to the drawing room when a voice from above stopped him in his tracks.

“Jean, my dearest friend. How good it is to see you after so long. I was worried that something dreadful had happened to you.”

Taking the final few steps downward Athos held out his arms, and with no hint of his usual embarrassment Treville fell into the embrace and hugged the man with all his might, kissing him on each cheek.

“You are a sight for sore eyes, Athos,” he said, holding him by the shoulders. “And you have two sons now, although I have seen nothing of your elder boy except for the back of his head.”

“I am here, M de Treville, and I am most delighted to see you again.”

There, descending from the first floor was a young man, so slim, tall and handsome that Treville would not have believed that this was little Olivier had it not been for those striking eyes.

Releasing Athos, he turned to greet his son. “You have grown up.”

“It invariably happens,” said Olivier, his lips tugging upwards into a half smile. “Though I will never be too old for catching frogs.”

Treville laughed loud and long for the first time in months as he took Olivier into his arms and embraced him. “I shall never forget that look on your face when you fell into the pond, my boy.”

“I’d blame you for it if you hadn’t been such a good teacher in all things.” Olivier dropped his gaze, his smile turning as shy as it had been when he was five.

“How old are you now?” asked Treville.

“Eighteen as of last month,” said Olivier. “I shall be joining Captain des Essarts’ company as soon as there is a new intake of cadets. I cannot wait.”

“You never could,” chuckled Treville, remembering those summer months of second childhood and all the good times spent with a little boy who, even at a such a young age, was desperate to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a soldier.

“I shall be an abé,” said Thomas, now returned to the gathering, changed from his riding clothes into a rather over the top set of formal wear.

“So you shall, young man,” said Athos with an affectionate smile at his youngest. “Thomas here is more spiritually minded than Olivier or I. We two are such heathens that we cannot hope to quote even a single line from the scriptures.”

Treville, who had witnessed at first hand the truth of what religion could do to people, was happy to stay clear of the Bible, although he still attended mass on a regular basis -- just in case.

“I prefer the Iliad,” said Olivier with a sideways glance at him.

Treville was touched that he remembered their storytelling. “Have you moved on to the Odyssey yet?”

“He has indeed,” said Athos, clapping his boy on the shoulders. “Though don’t encourage him too much or he will regale us with endless tales of ancient heroes. Come, let us raise a glass to our rekindled friendship.”

The drawing room was exactly as Treville remembered. In fact the entire chateau felt so familiar that, other than a change of household staff, it was as if he had slipped back in time.

“Is her Ladyship here?” he asked. “I should like to meet her.”

“Still at court, I’m afraid,” replied Athos as they sat together on the settee, wine goblets in hand. “She is tired of her life, but Marie de Medici is a time consuming mistress and now that she is Regent things have grown even more complicated.”

“I’m sure I must have met her when I was captain of the King’s Guard,” said Treville, “but I do not recall hearing anything of the Comtesse de la Fère.”

“She is Louise de Limeueil when she is in attendance,” said Athos. “At least for the short time she visits here she belongs to us in all ways.”

Treville knew the name and applied it to a face, pale skinned and elfin. Olivier was an artistic blend of the two, with Athos’ classic profile and his mother’s delicate features. He stole another glance, taken aback at how handsome the boy had become. He should not join the army. War had a habit of destroying both beauty and innocence.

“I know her,” he said, returning to the conversation. “I don’t believe we have ever spoken, but I have seen her at court.” He addressed Olivier with an amused expression. “Has she persuaded you into dancing yet?”

The young man blushed and shook his head. “My brother is far more proficient at such things than I am.”

“You dance better when you have a sword in your hand than a girl on your arm,” teased Thomas.

“It’s true,” said Olivier, “and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Those steps come far more naturally to me.”

Treville, understanding such sentiments all too well, nodded in both agreement and thanks as the young man went to refill his glass from the decanter. “Not too much wine or I’ll embarrass myself and fall asleep at the table,” he warned.

“It won’t be long until dinner is served,” said Olivier with a smile that was full of warmth. “I shall hurry the servants up.”

“He is a credit to you,” Treville told Athos when Olivier had hurried off to the kitchens. “And he will be an asset to the Guards.”

“Thank you,” said Athos. “I am a lucky man to be possessed of such fine sons.” He reached across to ruffle Thomas’ hair. “I’m glad you advised me to have another.”

Treville couldn’t help wishing that his friend spent a little less time fawning over his youngest, who was a pleasant enough lad but lacked the qualities that had forged Olivier into such a promising adult.

As the footmen carried an array of dishes to the table, Treville’s hunger returned to him at the sight of such a feast.

“You spoil me,” he said as he dived in. “I am not visiting royalty.”

“You are more important than that to us,” replied Athos. “We have missed your company these past years. My boy here speaks of you as often as he does his hero Achilles.”

The flush of embarrassment was fierce enough to hide the scattering of freckles on Olivier’s face. “Father,” he remonstrated gently. “I hope I am not so dull as to have only two topics of conversation.”

“Oh, but you are,” chuckled Thomas. “As dull as ditchwater.”

Turning back to children, the two boys traded playful punches until Athos pulled them up on on their behaviour.

“We are at table, gentlemen,” he said in a stricter voice than usual. “Please act like it. What would your mother think if she saw you behaving this way in front of a guest?”

“M de Treville is not a guest,” said Olivier with a sudden grin. “He is family.”

“Rightly so,” laughed Athos. “But oblige me and let us pretend we are civilised for one night at least.”

Despite the plea for manners this was a very manly event, more like a mess dinner than a domestic party. As they tucked into platters of food, Athos questioned Treville about old friends from the Guards and seemed more than a little nostalgic, yearning perhaps for the excitement of soldiering.

“Do you miss the regiment?” Treville asked, the effects of the wine loosening his tongue.

“I am happy enough with my life here,” said Athos. “Happier still when my wife pays us a visit.” He raised an amused eyebrow and swallowed down his goblet of wine, belching loudly for effect. “Still, at least there is no need for us to be overly polite for the sake of the women.” He then aimed a curious look at the elder of his two sons. “Have you an eye for any of the girls around here, Olivier? I’ve heard from her father that young Catherine de Garouville is enamoured with you.”

Olivier blushed once again, hotter this time. “Mother says I should wait until I am presented at court,” he replied.

“Fall in love, boy,” laughed Athos. “Don’t wait for someone else to arrange it. I was happily married and a father by your age. What do you say, Jean?”

“How can I have an opinion on such things when I am still a bachelor?” Treville yawned and stifled it hurriedly with his napkin. “I apologise,” he said. “It has been a long day, but it is good to be here and I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.”

“I’ll show you to your room,” said Olivier, jumping to his feet.

“Do as the boy says and get some rest,” agreed Athos. “There will be plenty of time to catch up on the rest of the news tomorrow, once I am done with my lawyer.”

“I shall hold you to that,” said Treville as he followed his young guide out of the dining room and up the stairs.

“The room that was yours now belongs to Thomas,” explained Olivier, turning right, once they had reached the landing, rather than left, the candle raised in his hand to cast more light as they walked. “But this one is nicer, I think. It has a view of our woods.”

Treville remembered it clearly. When he had visited La Fère before this had been the nursery suite and he could still picture Olivier sitting at the desk and struggling with his grammar. 

“Our woods,” he repeated, filled with happy memories as he recalled their escape that first day. “You were a very entertaining host,” he said with a smile as he drew back the heavy tapestry curtains and gazed out into the darkness, hoping perhaps for a glimpse of the pond in the moonlight. “And you have grown into a delightful young man,” he mused out loud, the combination of wine and tiredness allowing him to speak his mind.

“Thank you,” said Olivier solemnly. “I am proud that you think so. Tomorrow morning, after my fencing lesson, perhaps you’d like to go riding with me?”

“I would enjoy that very much indeed,” said Treville, stepping away from the window and adding another log of wood to the fire. “Goodnight, Olivier.”

Once alone, Treville stripped off to braies and chemise. Pissing away the surplus drink into the pot, he then snuffed both candles and climbed into bed, listening to the crackle of the fire as he had done on his first night at the chateau. All was calm and he had no one to protect. Perhaps at last he could get some rest.

Sleep came easily to him in this sanctuary, but it was far from undisturbed. He dreamt a long and convoluted story of a king poisoned in his arms and Ganymede attending them both, that cup pressed against his lips. Waking in the small hours, the house wrapped in such a thick blanket of stillness that the darkness pressed down on him, he tossed in his bed, restless with nerves and convinced that he had betrayed king, family and every one of his friends and compatriots.


	4. Chapter 4

After a difficult night, most of it spent waiting for that soft edge of morning to appear, Treville finally succumbed to the deepest of sleeps long after the cocks had crowed. He awoke in a panic to sunlight streaming through the open curtains and the bustling sounds of a house, up and running.

Drinking deep from the tankard that had been left beside his bed, he wolfed down bread and butter and then rose to face the day -- whatever it might bring. After a quick wash in ice cold water he felt revived and dressed in a hurry, fastening the buttons of his doublet and breeches and pulling on his boots. 

Athos was unavailable, still cloistered in the study, signing documents and discussing estate business, and Treville found himself at a loose end until he remembered the other invitation he had received last night.

“Where does Master Olivier take his fencing lessons?” he asked Charlotte, the only familiar face amongst the staff, other than the housekeeper.

“In the long gallery, Sir,” she replied, blushing a little and bobbing her head.

“Thank you,” said Treville, striding through a house that was as familiar to him as his own home had once been.

The gallery was a little used area that stretched the entire length of the building. It had been designed as a place to take exercise when the weather was bad, and was also the room that housed the best of the family's collection of paintings -- signed by such artists as Caron, Clouet and Bellange.

Today, none of these pictures caught Treville's eye. Instead he remained focused on Olivier and his fencing master as they manoeuvred back and forth across the wooden floor with balletic grace but little idea of combat. 

“I did not realise this was your dancing lesson,” he said as the the two men took a rest.

The fencing master glared at him. “Good swordsmanship is about neat footwork above all else.”

Treville snorted derisively. “Where I come from, swordsmanship is about instinct, skill and defeating the other man before he defeats you.”

The instructor shot a second angry glance at Treville and then adopted a fighting stance. “To your feet, Master Olivier. Our break is over.”

He then proceeded, without warning, to unleash a vicious attack on the young man, lunging at him and swiping carelessly with his rapier. The blade was too high and Olivier lurched backwards, letting out a single cry of pain as he held a hand to his face.

The sight of blood incensed Treville and, surging forwards, he clamped his hands down on the instructor’s shoulders, shaking him viciously.

“You are not a swordsman and nor are you a teacher. You are not fit to instruct anyone,” he shouted. “Leave this house before I throw you outside on your fat arse.”

Shoving the man aside he then knelt next to Olivier, taking hold of his wrist. “Let me see,” he said in a gentle voice, moving the hand away from the young man’s face.

There was an awful lot of blood coming from the wound and, trying to hide the flutter of panic that was welling up inside him, Treville took out his handkerchief and dabbed at the cut. The blade had sliced upwards at a slight angle into the boy’s lip, ending just before his nostril.

“Is it bad?” asked Olivier tentatively.

“A scratch,” replied Treville, retaining an outward façade of calm. “It’s only bleeding so much because the cut is on your mouth. I’ll fetch some water to clean you up.”

On his way to the kitchens, Treville discovered the fencing master complaining bitterly to Mme Jaccard about his treatment.

“The blaggard assaulted me.”

“I told you to leave here now,” snarled Treville, his teeth gritted in fury, and hauling the man over to the door, he opened it and pushed the fellow so hard that he tripped over on the flagstones and fell to his knees. “That boy will be scarred for life because of your incompetence. Be grateful I am not doing the same to you.”

Slamming the door shut he breathed in deeply to steady himself.

“Is it true?” asked the housekeeper. 

“Sadly, I believe so,” said Treville. “Fetch a bowl of water and some cloths. He’ll also need a clean shirt.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mme Jaccard, clearly shaken by the news.

When Treville returned to the long gallery he found Olivier examining himself in the mirror and strode over to stand behind him, hands coming to rest on his hips. To his relief, the young man was smiling at him from the glass.

“The bleeding has almost stopped,” he said. “With any luck it’ll leave a mark. That way I can arrive at the garrison already scarred from battle.”

Treville manoeuvred him around in order to examine the injury in closer detail. The blood flow was indeed letting up a little.

“Off with that shirt,” he said, grabbing the hem and lifting it over Olivier’s head. “If Mme Jaccard sees what a mess you’re in she’ll have a fit of the vapours.” He could hear footsteps approaching along the corridor. “I apologise sincerely, Olivier,” he added in a low voice, cupping that face which was still a thing of beauty despite being coated in a layer of dried blood. “I should never have riled him up in such a way. It never dawned on me that he might harm you.”

“It’s nothing,” replied Olivier, leaning into Treville's touch. “It proved how useless he was as a fencing master.” His lips tugged upwards into a smile. “From now on you shall be my instructor.”

“Master Olivier!” cried Mme Jaccard, setting the bowl down on a marble table top. “What has that man done to you?” Wetting a cloth, she took over from Treville and began to wipe the blood from both face and neck. “No wonder you were so angry, Monsieur.”

Treville nodded, watching with amusement as Olivier grew more and more irritated by her ministrations.

“Don’t fuss,” the young man grumbled, pulling away from the housekeeper with a level of indignation that only came from being a fledgling adult. “It’s no worse than any other scratch. M de Treville said so himself.”

“Master Olivier, “ she said, fixing him with a stern eye. “You’ll let me tend to you and then I insist that you rest for the remainder of the day.”

“But I’ve not finished my lesson,” complained Olivier, aiming a look of appeal at Treville who stifled a laugh and shook his head.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough for sword fighting,” he said. “Today we shall make use of the library and go over some of your father’s books on military history. Will that do as a replacement?”

“It will indeed,” said Olivier, fully placated as he pulled the clean chemise over his head and tucked it into his breeches. “Mme Jaccard, if you would be kind enough to send some refreshments through to us.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the housekeeper. “Provided there are no more tantrums from you,” she added, and delighted at having regained the upper hand, she collected the blood stained shirt and bowl of water from the table then bustled off to the kitchen.

“Does she always have to treat me as a child?” complained Olivier and as they walked he slid his arm about Treville’s waist.

“The dear woman has brought you up from a baby,” said Treville. “So I suspect the answer is yes.” It felt natural to let his arm drape across Olivier’s shoulders. “You are still young and I recommend you enjoy it before the burdens of adulthood weigh you down.”

“I’ll do my best to follow your advice,” said Olivier as they entered the library. “However this is something I know I'll enjoy,” he added with relish.

Choosing a selection of books from the shelves, Treville sat down next to the young man, both of them sharing a small settee that was positioned in front of the mullioned window. There was little he could think of that could be more delightful than a morning spent in such a peaceful way.

The afternoon that followed on from it was also a pleasure, his time taken up with father rather than son.

It was the perfect day for country pursuits and he and Athos rode hard with the hounds, spending several fruitful hours coursing for hares.

“Olivier was anxious to come with us, but I refused,” said Athos. “Don’t be afraid to tell him off if he pesters you too much.”

“There is no danger of that,” said Treville. “He is a good companion. We share many interests.”

“Thank you for helping him this morning,” said Athos. “I should have tested that fool’s skills before employing him as a teacher.”

“I’ll be more than happy to take over instruction whilst I’m here,” said Treville. “And I’m sure that between us we can think of a suitable fencing master as replacement. Olivier will be joining the regiment soon, but Thomas will still need lessons.”

“He’ll have no use for them,” said Athos. “He’s determined to follow his vocation and enter the clergy. My sons are both driven to succeed, although their paths are very different. My fondest hope is that one day, when age becomes less of a significance, they will grow to be friends as well as brothers.”

Treville pondered this throughout the rest of the afternoon, and as they sat down to dinner that evening he eyed Olivier in a new light. The years that separated them meant nothing. They had always been friends and, with any luck, would remain that way until the end.

The next day began early with Olivier waking him, politely insistent that it was time for his first proper lesson in combat techniques, eager to master the sword. 

Once dressed and breakfasted, Treville approached his young friend, moving in close to examine that wound for any sign of trouble. Olivier heaved in a sudden breath and for a moment Treville was worried that something was wrong, but the skin was knitting together and a healthy pink in colour, the cut healing quickly as mouths always did, and there would be no need to postpone their plans. 

Patting him softly on the cheek Treville took a single step back. “I pronounce you fit for battle. The question is are you ready to face me?”

“Of course,” grinned the young man. “I’ll race you to the training grounds.” Showing him a clean pair of heels he was off, charging through the corridors of the house and, laughing with delight, Treville chased after him, catching up just as they reached the long gallery.

“Off with that fancy doublet,” panted Treville. “Today you will learn what it is to break a sweat when fighting.”

His eyes bright with excitement, cheeks flushed to a high colour, Olivier did as requested, stripping down to breeches and chemise. “I shall be glad of it,” he said. “Teach me.”

Treville nodded and took his stance. “En garde,” he said with a smile. “First you must show me what you can do.”

Olivier lunged at him and in mere seconds was disarmed and defeated. “That,” he said, picking his rapier up off the floor, “was embarrassing. I assure you I can do better.”

“You will once I’ve finished with you,” chuckled Treville. “Once again, but be more thoughtful this time. Do not forewarn me of your moves.”

The boy’s well practiced footwork and classic technique was an asset when it came to teaching him. Treville was able to improve these and at the same time instill in him a sense of timing and panache.

After a morning’s hard sparring they were both sweaty from exhaustion and sank down onto the floor, side by side, recovering their breath.

“You are good,” said Treville, clapping a firm hand down on Olivier’s shoulder. “You are very good indeed.”

Olivier shrugged. “You beat me every time. That does not seem particularly good to me.”

“You possess the one skill that no one can ever teach you,” replied Treville. “You have instinct. You know how the fight will progress and this will hold you in good stead for when you are in battle. Learn to stop telegraphing your moves and you will be unstoppable.”

“Truly?” asked Olivier, his eyes wide.

“I do not flatter,” said Treville. “We’ll spar every morning whilst I am here and I promise you will soon become an excellent swordsman.” Memories came flooding back to him of his early days in the Guards. “Did your father ever tell you how terrible he and I were at all forms of combat when we first joined the regiment?”

“No,” said Olivier, his lips tugging upwards into a half smile. “I always imagined you to be heroes from the start.”

“We were far from that,” chuckled Treville. “We spent the entire first month being taken apart by our instructors and the rest of the recruits alike.” He let loose a grin at Olivier. “Though our dancing steps were exquisite.”

“Then I thank you sincerely for showing me the true way.”

“It is my pleasure,” said Treville, getting to his feet. “Shall we go for that ride you promised? I imagine I will struggle to keep up with you nowadays. You were a good horseman when you were five.”

“I have improved a little since then,” said Olivier and it was only when he slung an arm around Treville's shoulders it dawned on him that the boy was already an inch taller than he.

Filled with a sudden flood of regret he turned morose. What a waste of a life. So many years had been spent protecting a King who was now murdered and lying entombed in his crypt.

“You’re unhappy,” said Olivier. “How can I help you?”

That instinct in him was not solely for fighting, but was deeper still when it came to understanding his fellow man. This would hold him in good stead for the future when he became a regimental commander.

“It is nothing that cannot be remedied by being here with you,” said Treville, putting on his jacket but leaving it unbuttoned. There was no need for ceremony when he was at La Fère and yet he kept his sword belt buckled in place. He felt naked without it after being in constant service to the King for so long. “To the stables, my lad.”

They headed for the far exit of the long gallery and on the way Olivier came to a halt, lingering beside a marble statue.

“This was presented to my father by King Henry,” he said, running a finger over the smooth features and cleverly worked armour. “He represents Achilles and is very handsome I think.” He gazed at the statue in awe and then glanced shyly at Treville. “He has always reminded me of you.”

“I used to quote you so many passages of Homer when we were out riding,” said Treville. They were still fresh in his mind when he was just twenty, but less so now. “I can barely remember them I am so old.”

“You are not old,” scolded Olivier.

“And yet you thought so when you were five,” said Treville as they continued their journey to the stables.

“I also thought you were a giant and look how that turned out.” Olivier raised an amused eyebrow at him.

“You, however, are still the same little rogue,” replied Treville, utterly at ease with this boy who was now on the cusp of manhood. “Although admittedly not so little.”

As time passed, Treville’s joie de vivre came back to him with a vengeance and he knew he must rejoin the company before the month was out. He had kept up a correspondence with Captain des Essarts and recently the letters from his commander had been mentioning a return to duty with increasing frequency. It was, however, hard to tear himself away from this idyll.

“I am always here at the best time of year,” he said as the two friends sat by the pond, watching the wildlife.

“It is a paradise,” admitted Olivier. “But I like it most when you are with me to enjoy it.”

“I’m afraid I must be gone soon,” said Treville. “If I prolong my leave any further I am not certain Captain des Essarts will have me back at all.”

Darting forward, he captured one of the young frogs with ease, holding it on the palm of his hand and then passing it across to Olivier. “A goodbye present for you.”

“You could have done that when I was a child.” The young man arched an eyebrow. “And yet you let me struggle.”

“It is the struggle that teaches us the most,” replied Treville and he could feel the weight of Olivier’s gaze, although no words were forthcoming. “It is the struggle that forges us into men.”

The weather was turning sultry and, lying back in the long grass, Treville gazed up at the canopy of trees.

“Paris will be a hellhole,” said Olivier in a smaller voice than usual. “Father says it always is during the summertime. You should stay until the hottest days have passed.”

“You put forward a persuasive argument,” said Treville, turning his head and smiling at his companion.

“Let us ride down to the river,” said Olivier, carefully placing the frog on a lily pad. “We can argue the day away and discuss the classics.”

Usually Treville would spend his afternoons with Athos, but yesterday his friend had been called to Paris as a matter of urgency, informing them, before he left, that he would in all likelihood be gone for a while. It was too hot to consider luncheon and wiling away the hours with some stories of Odysseus would be the perfect way of passing time.

They ambled along the path that looped through the woodland, as familiar now to Treville as the house itself. He was lost again, but only to his thoughts, and as they emerged into the light and mounted their horses, he was overwhelmed by a need to escape life and hide here forever.

“I don’t believe I have ever shown you this place,” said Olivier as he twisted around in the saddle to speak to Treville. “It is somewhere I go to avoid the heat when it is too much.”

They followed the course of the river until it turned sharply and it was at this point that Olivier dismounted, leaping from his horse whilst it was still moving. Leading it to the shallows, he let it drink and then tethered it loosely to a low tree branch.

Treville did the same and afterwards approached Olivier who was standing at the bank, gazing into the depths, as he invariably did when encountering a stretch of water. The relentless flow had eroded the land and caused the formation of a pool, the river now moving past on its way through the valley.

“This is where you swim,” said Treville.

“It is.” Olivier immediately began stripping out of his clothes. “But only on the hottest days. The water is far too cold otherwise.”

Naked in seconds he dived into the pool, coming to the surface and flicking the wet hair back from his face. His teeth were chattering. “It’s nice,” he said. “Join me.”

Nudity amongst men was common at the barracks and Treville undressed without embarrassment. “I know that you’re lying by that covering of gooseflesh,” he said. “But it does look inviting.”

Olivier swam a few strokes leaving Treville space to dive in and he did so, entering the water and dipping deep below the surface, the icy temperature enough to make his heart race.

“Mon Dieu,” he cried as he surfaced, tempted to get straight out again, but as he began to swim his body to grew accustomed to the cold. 

“See,” said Olivier and then he duck dived down and Treville could feel the cool streak of his body as he swam beneath him. “It’s nice, just as I said.”

Competitive as always, they set up marker points on the bank and raced each other in the water, childhood returning for both of them this time, and when the cold grew too much they climbed out and lay next to each other in the long grass, drying off in the sun.

“Life will not be as easy as this when you’re a soldier,” warned Treville.

Olivier propped himself up on an elbow. “I am aware,” he said, his words laden with wry amusement. “I know it will be hard work, but I will have companionship at last. The only time I have that now is when you are here with me.”

These quiet words marked a return of that lonely little boy and once again Treville was filled with sympathy. “You have Thomas,” he said.

“My brother is pleasant enough,” said Olivier, echoing Treville’s thoughts from the night of his arrival. “But he and I have nothing in common. He is an accomplished musician and dancer. He spends time learning passages from the Bible. He is even good at mathematics whereas I have no aptitude whatsoever for numbers.” He snorted in disgust at his lack of talents. “It is hard to imagine two siblings so very different.”

“You have skills,” said Treville. “Your Latin and Greek are sound and you have a definite thirst for knowledge as far as history is concerned-”

“As long as it is about heroes and battles,” interrupted Olivier with a smile. “I have been reading everything I can find on Achilles and Patroclus.”

“Your favourites,” laughed Treville.

“Always,” said Olivier earnestly. “I discovered an interpretation recently which implied a new level of intimacy between them that I had not previously considered.”

“I’ve always thought of them as brothers and friends,” said Treville carefully. “The kind of comradeship that exists between soldiers is all consuming and deeper than most, but rarely more than that.”

“But Achilles was devastated when Patroclus died,” said Olivier. 

“And my heart would break at the loss of your father,” explained Treville, leaning up now and mirroring Olivier’s pose. “I love him, but not in that way.”

Olivier’s brow furrowed and he looked away for a moment. “Though you cannot deny that the ancient Greeks did love in such a way,” he said. “Erastes and eromenos. Achilles and Patroclus.” He paused for a moment and the silence was weighted with emotion. He then placed his hand delicately over Treville’s heart. “You and I.”

Olivier was so solemn, so determined--the way he had been all his life--and Treville was thrown into confusion. This beautiful boy, all lithe and muscled, warm from the sunshine, his hair dripping wet with river water, was offering himself up to be loved. It was a dangerous temptation, but a risk too great to be taken. Treville stole a glance downwards and willed his body not to respond to the sight that greeted him.

“Erastes and eromenos are nothing more than mentor and pupil and I will be that to you always, Olivier,” he answered him, taking hold of that hand and moving it away from his chest. He felt its absence immediately. “I swear with all my heart.”

“Then I will kiss you as such and we will say no more of it,” said Olivier.

Soft lips brushed Treville’s mouth. He could feel the pucker of healed skin and it took every iota of strength not to respond. He wanted so much to swipe at the scar with the tip of his tongue. To lick into that warm mouth, deepening the kiss until he drowned. There was, however, no choice in the matter because this was his best friend’s son -- little more than a child. Not Ganymede. Not Patroclus to Achilles. Not Hephaestion to Alexander. Harmodius and Aristogeiton. His head was riddled with the knowledge of such partnerships.

“We should go,” he said brightly. “I’m famished after that swim.”

True to his word, Olivier never mentioned the subject again and things did not grow awkward between them as Treville had feared they might. 

At first he was keen to remove himself from temptation, but was unwilling to leave La Fère until he had said his goodbyes to Athos. 

Awaiting the Comte’s return, he and Olivier carried on as before, training together and happy in each other’s company, enjoying innocent outdoor pursuits in the splendid weather as nothing more than good friends. Now that he had recognised it, Treville grew ever more surprised by the insignificance of that age gap between them as they lingered at the dining table every night, deeply involved in long discussions about warfare, both enthralled by the clever strategies employed by generals throughout history.

“It is a shame that tactics and knowledge are not always enough,” said Treville, the effects of the wine encouraging his melancholy to make a sudden and unwelcome return.

“Please tell me what troubles you,” said Olivier. “I may not be able to offer useful advice, but talking can ease the heartache.”

Treville swallowed down the dregs of his claret. “When I was part of the King’s Household my sole duty was to protect his Majesty.” he said. “I failed. He was assassinated and died in my arms. He did not blame me at the end, but that cannot prevent me from blaming myself.”

“You devoted your life to protecting him,” said Olivier softly. “You gave up everything to be in his service. You were- You _are_ a true hero.”

Eyes stinging with salt, Treville stood abruptly. “I am as far from that as any man could be, but I hope one day to make amends.“

“There is no need,” said Olivier, coming over to join him by the fire. “But you cannot fail to do so because you have set your mind to it.”

“I pray that you are right and yet I fear you have too much faith in me,” said Treville, resting his hand on the small of Olivier's back. “You are so full of compassion,” he murmured, overwhelmed by this moment of intimacy between them.

“Amongst other things.” Olivier’s smile did not match the look in his eyes. “To bed with you. You need to sleep off the wine and the sadness.”

“More good advice,” said Treville, wheeling around, somewhat unsteadily, and heading for the door. About to leave the room he turned back at the last minute. “You are a wonder.”

Bed did not prove to be a restful place that night. This time it was not dreams that tormented Treville, but instead waking thoughts of his young friend. Olivier was not a child. Treville had seen evidence of that at the riverside -- his body fully developed in all ways, his mind that of an adult way beyond his years. This Ganymede of his was indeed the most beautiful of creatures, but Treville would have no need to carry him off unwillingly, as Zeus had done, for Olivier had made his feelings plain.

Would it be so wrong? he asked himself, seated on the edge of the feather mattress, a hand clamped around that part of him which ached so much for Olivier’s touch. He thought of that water cooled body slipping past him. He thought of that innocent kiss. But most of all he thought of the look in Olivier’s eyes when he spoke, quietly heartfelt, of his love. It was too much and Treville succumbed to his desires, spending into a cupped palm and wiping away the evidence on the handkerchief that was still stained from Olivier’s blood, their essences mixing together.

Afterwards he was wracked with guilt, close to slipping away in the middle of the night and returning to the safety of Paris, but this would not be the soldierly way of dealing with such a problem. Instead he would stay away from Bacchanalian pleasures and treat Olivier as he would his own son.

Morning brought it with the excuse for escape that he had been hunting for, but it turned out to be a most unwelcome one. Thomas was present at the breakfast table, but his brother was nowhere to be seen, although the house itself was lively with activity.

“What is happening?” Treville asked the younger of the de La Fère boys.

“I have no idea,” said Thomas in his usual petulant fashion. “No one ever tells me a thing.”

When Treville eventually caught up with Olivier, it was clear that the lad was extremely distressed but was doing his best to hide it.

“What is going on?” demanded Treville as he watched the servants scurrying up and down stairs in a constant stream of activity.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave here immediately, M de Treville,” said Olivier, his voice cracking with emotion.

“We are friends,” said Treville softly. “Call me Treville or Jean, whichever you prefer, but please tell me what is upsetting you so much.”

“I received word from Father this morning,” said Olivier, wringing his hands in despair. “Mother is sick with the fever that is raging through the city at present. He is bringing her here to recuperate rather than subjecting her to the horrors of hospital and he insists that I send you away for your safekeeping.”

But what of his children, wondered Treville. How could the man be so careless with the lives of his sons? This was typical of him -- a decision made in haste that he may eventually come to regret.

“I sent an immediate reply suggesting he take her to the local hospice run by the brethren, but the rider said that he would be unlikely to reach him with the message.” Olivier gazed at him, his eyes wide with panic. “You must go, Jean, but promise me it will not be to rejoin the regiment in Paris. Not until this disease has run its course.”

“I cannot do that,” said Treville, pulling the young man into a firm embrace. “They will need me at the garrison. God willing, we will both survive this.”

“And provided we do,” replied Olivier, pulling back a little to study Treville. “What then?”

“Then you will join the Gardes Françaises and I will be your officer,” said Treville. “As it was always meant to be.”

“Meant to be,” repeated Olivier, his forehead resting momentarily against Treville’s shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More amazing cover art from FromPella. Thank you so much. <3

  


* * *

Keeping up his correspondence with both Athos and Olivier, Treville was saddened to learn that Louise de la Fère had died of her illness. This was not surprising. The epidemic was one of the worst he had encountered and Paris was being systematically ravaged by it. Half the garrison had come down with the fever and, although invited by both father and son, Treville felt unable to attend the funeral of the Comtesse. He would not risk bringing the illness back to La Fère when their home was clear of it at present.

A few months later their paths diverged once again when he was ordered to return to the palace as part of the King's Household, which had not escaped being decimated by disease.

“You will attend my son at all times, Treville,” said the Queen Regent -- although in her own inflated opinion of herself, she was the full monarch. “I asked Louis who he wished to protect him and for some reason he chose you.” She spoke disdainfully as if mention of him left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Treville cringed internally. Other than death, he could not imagine a fate worse than this. It was a penance for his sins. The boy king was a nervous little creature, stammering and unsure of himself. In fact Treville wasn’t entirely certain that he was all there. He certainly seemed a dullard.

Adding to his current level of frustration was the news that Olivier had recently joined des Essarts’ company as a cadet. He had been looking forward to watching him progress in the regiment, certain that his young friend would do them proud. In all ways Olivier was the complete opposite of the boy king Louis, quick witted and resourceful, and Treville had wanted, with all his heart, for the young soldier to become a protégé of his. To know that he would be under someone else's tutelage hurt him somewhere deep inside.

Resigned to the fact that he would be nothing more than a child minder and instructor for the rest of his days, Treville fell into the routine of the palace, teaching Louis to fence and ride, encouraging him to hunt and become more daring in his outlook on life. Now that he had got to know him better, Treville found the boy to be relatively sharp minded and always eager to please. His biggest disability was that he suffered terribly with shyness and nerves, hence the stammering, and unfortunately this troubled him most when forced to honour his state duties. 

Treville, forthright in his dislike of children, found it amusing that he had taken yet another lonely lad under his wing, and although this one would never affect him as greatly as Olivier had done, he was growing fond of little Louis and was determined that he would help him overcome his inadequacies.

“I did not know my father much at all,” said the boy when they were out hawking for the day in the Versailles hunting grounds. “But if I had done, I hope he’d be like you, Treville.”

“You honour me, Sire,” replied Treville.

“I do, don’t I?” chuckled the King, clearly amused by this fact.

With no opportunity for serious military training, Treville occupied what little free time there was by writing frequent letters to both Athos and Olivier. He had been concerned that his friends would be grieving for the Comtesse, but it seemed that those long absences from her had left them used to the idea of a life without wife or mother.

 _For Thomas’ sake I will endeavour to marry again,_ wrote Athos. _But this time I shall choose a wife not out of love, but for reasons of practicality. I would enjoy some female companionship and my youngest needs a mother’s guiding hand. He misses Louise the most._

_Olivier, I’m sure you have heard, has taken to soldiering as a duck to water. You and I were both certain that this would be the case, but it is good to hear that he has settled well into the company. My only sadness is that you are not there to guide him along his path. He is exceedingly fond of you, as am I, and my greatest hope is that an opportunity will soon arise for us three fine soldiers to dine together as brothers-in-arms._

_I hope that life at the palace is not dragging you down too much, my dear friend. Olivier spoke to me in a quiet moment before he left, telling me how very badly you were affected by the death of our good King Henry. I think in his own sweet way, he was asking me to look out for you -- something that is unnecessary because you are, and always will be, a true brother to me._

He signed off in his usual way as a devoted friend and Treville smiled and slipped the letter beneath his pillow to read again in the morning, turning over to his customary sleep position and picturing Olivier in his mind’s eye, the young man cautiously approaching his father to tell him of his concerns. This discretion--this sweet nature, as Athos had described it--made Treville ache for Olivier in ways that were unhealthy. This in turn brought with it the sudden realisation that it was for the best they were not barracked together, at close quarter, in the city garrison.

The letters he received from Olivier made even more of an impact and he kept those in a bundle, tied with a ribbon to secure them as one would a collection from a sweetheart. The significance of this was not lost to him, but he would continue to guard them carefully, loathed to lose any one of them, despite the innocent subject matter of their conversation.

 _I try harder, as each day passes, to improve my skills,_ wrote the young man. _I imagine that it is you teaching me and my aim in life is to make you and father proud. One day I hope to lead a charge with you both by my side._

_Father writes to tell me that he has been ordered to take command of a newly formed regiment of cavalry. They are to be equipped with carbines and are being sent, with immediacy, to put down the Huguenot uprising in the south. I long to be part of his company, but will remain here at the garrison until my training is complete._

_As always, I look forward to hearing from you._

_Yours._

_Olivier_

Not loyal servant or devoted friend, but simply _his_. Belonging to him. This was a new way of signing off and Treville wondered whether it had been an absent minded error. Olivier, however, was a determined and deliberate soul--he had been since he was a child--and he did not make mistakes.

What Treville loathed most about life at the palace was the infernal politics. Even when there was little to achieve from it, the royal advisors embarked upon endless rounds of oneupmanship with each other, hoping to gain an advantage.

Treville did not understand why the Queen Regent insisted on her son being present at these meetings. The boy sat day dreaming, swinging his legs on a throne that was too large for him and looking at Treville with pleading brown eyes in hope that he could rescue him from this purgatory.

If Treville could have done so then he most definitely would, preserving his own sanity as well as that of the King, but unfortunately they were both stuck fast in courtly mire.

Listening with half an ear to the conversation his mind snapped back to business when he heard news that a second uprising in the south was underway, the attack happening unexpectedly with the rebels laying waste to one of the cavalry regiments that had been stationed in the region as a peacekeeping force.

“Which company?” he demanded, fixing his eyes on the current first minister. He would be replaced soon. They came and went with the steady frequency of dawn and dusk.

“The Carabins Noirs,” said the cardinal haughtily. “Though I do not see what business it is of yours.”

Treville’s heart sank. “And their commander, the Comte de la Fère? What of him?”

“He was killed along with his men. There will be repercussions. The rebels will be hanged, drawn and quartered for their crimes.”

Digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand, Treville focused on the pain and used it to ground him. He needed to be the one to tell Olivier of his father’s death, but if he demanded time away from the palace right now, it would not be granted. Remaining silent for the rest of the session, he waited until it was over and then took Louis to one side, kneeling in order to speak to him.

“Your Majesty, I have just received news that my dearest friend has been killed in battle. He has two sons and I would prefer to be the one to tell them of their father’s death. I will not be away from court for long.”

Louis frowned, his petulance, as always, close to the surface at all times. “Are the children old?” he asked.

“Olivier is nineteen and has recently joined the Gardes Françaises, but Thomas is only thirteen.”

“I was just nine when my father was murdered,” said Louis, as if it were a competition and he were the victor. “They have a mother, I suppose.”

“No,” replied Treville. “She died almost a year ago. Mme de Limeueil was a lady in waiting to the Queen Regent.”

“I know her. I liked her,” said Louis. “She was kind to me when I had trouble speaking. I did not know she had sons of her own.” All of a sudden he looked determined. “Come, Treville. We’ll tell my mother that I have granted you a leave of absence. She will not be happy, but I am King after all.” A small and rather wicked smile uplifted the corners of his mouth as they headed for the Royal apartments.

Other than a tightening of the lips it was difficult to detect how very angry the Queen Regent was at Treville’s clever manipulation of the situation, but he knew her of old and was well aware of her need to be the sole player moving pieces around the chessboard.

“You will inform the Comte de la Fère of his new status and then you will return immediately to the palace. He is old enough to take charge of the situation,” she said haughtily.

“Very well, Majesty.” Treville bowed in deference. He’d got his wish. He would be the one to pass the news to Olivier and they could mourn together, even if it were for just a short time. “I’ll leave for the garrison immediately.”

Out of respect for his former commander, Treville spoke to des Essarts first, informing him of the situation.

“Damnation,” said the captain, pacing the room. “Two good men lost in one fell swoop. I assume the new Comte will return to his estate?”

“I imagine he’ll have no choice,” said Treville. “At least for the short term.”

“Then tell him quickly before he hears any gossip on the subject,” said des Essarts. “I shall have him brought to the office and leave you alone to pass on the news.”

Treville was normally happy to be back in his old stomping grounds, but today he’d choose to be anywhere else. Even being entrenched again at Amiens would be preferential to this. Standing at the window he watched as the young man ascended the steps, bright eyed and full of joy. Soon all that happiness would be extinguished, snuffed out like a candle.

“Captain,” said Olivier, entering the room. His smile grew infectiously wide when he saw who was occupying the office in place of his commander. “Jean. How good it is to see you again.”

Perhaps it was Treville’s expression that gave the game away, but almost immediately that light began to disappear.

“I’m so sorry, Olivier,” said Treville, forcing his tongue to form those most hated words. “There was another uprising and the Huguenots attacked the garrison in Pau. Your father was amongst those who were killed in action. I am informed that he died bravely. The rebels have been caught and will be executed for their crimes.”

“Not even a war,” said Olivier softly. “He would have hated dying in such a way.” He turned his back and surveyed the library of books. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Olivier?” Treville approached him, resting a hand on his shoulder. The young man was trembling, trying to suppress the grief that threatened to break free. “Cry if you need to.”

“I am a soldier,” said Olivier, turning once again, slowly this time, to face him. His emotions were masked, those precious eyes dulled from pain. “There are many things that need to be done, but crying isn’t one of them. I must hurry to La Fère and tell Thomas. I will inform the captain of my plans.”

“There is no need,” said Treville. “I have done so already on your behalf.”

“I am not a child, Treville,” snapped Olivier. “And Captain des Essarts is my commander. It is my duty to explain the necessity for a leave of absence.”

How grown he was. How shuttered. This was not the Olivier he knew and Treville had no intention of walking away from him when he was suffering so deeply. “I’ll ride with you to La Fère,” he announced. “I’ll not leave you to cope with this alone.”

“I would be grateful for that,” replied Olivier, _his_ Olivier at last, and a single hitched sob escaped him. “I’m not certain I know what I am supposed to do.”

“I shall be there to guide you,” said Treville, drawing him into an embrace. “We’ll weather this together, my dearest boy.”

Appropriately enough, a storm hit hard as they rode northward to La Fère and they arrived at the house like two drowned rats, cloaks and hats only able to keep away a small portion of the downpour.

“Off with those wet things,” said Mme Jaccard in her usual no nonsense fashion, more of a mother than a servant. 

“Father has been killed in battle,” said Olivier, gazing helplessly at her. “I must tell Thomas.”

His eyes were huge and wounded and today he let himself be fussed over by the housekeeper, who then took both men into the drawing room and sat them in front of a roaring fire to dry off.

“Thomas is with his tutor in the study,” she said. “I will go and fetch him, your Lordship.”

“Oh God. I am Comte now,” said Olivier once she was gone. “What does this mean? What am I to do? I wish I had been born the younger son.”

“Well you weren’t and there's nothing you can do that will change it,” said Treville. Right now the young man needed encouragement rather than sympathy. “You must learn to take on the duties of a liege lord.”

“And give up soldiering?”

“Your father managed both very well indeed,” said Treville. “In time you will do the same.”

“What are you doing back here, Olivier?” demanded Thomas, interrupting them as he barged into the drawing room. “I thought you’d be gone for months.” 

He was smiling, however, clearly pleased to see his elder brother, and this gave Treville hope that their relationship was becoming close knit at last.

“It’s Father,” said Olivier, standing to greet him. “He was killed in a Protestant uprising at Pau.”

“No,” said Thomas, his face turning grey from the shock. “He isn’t dead. He can’t be dead. I won’t have it. Stop talking nonsense.”

Such a child, thought Treville. This boy acted far younger in years than Olivier had done when he was five.

“I’m afraid it is true,” said Olivier. “But I shall remain here to look after things. You do not need to worry, brother. Nothing will change for you.”

“Will there even be a funeral?” asked Thomas. “I would like there to be one.”

Olivier looked at Treville. “Will there?” he said in a low voice.

“I will ensure that your father's body is returned here as soon as possible, “ said Treville. “You will be able to lay him to rest as he would have wished.”

Sod the Queen Regent and her demands. He would stay until this was done.

That night Treville found it impossible to settle and wandered the corridors like a ghost, hoping perhaps for a spectral visit from Athos to ease his troubled mind. 

“I will take it upon myself to look after them both,” he vowed as he visited his friend’s bedroom. “You need never worry about your children, mon ami.”

“You could not sleep either?” asked Olivier from the threshold, pushing the door gently until it closed with a muffled thud.

“No,” admitted Treville. “Has it only been days since we heard the news?” It seemed longer, a lifetime at least. 

“The world is too quiet without him,” said Olivier and, placing the candlestick on the dresser, he stretched out on the bed. “So quiet I can’t think.”

He rolled onto his side and the tears finally escaped him, rough angry sobs that broke from his chest in waves of despair.

“That’s it,” said Treville, lying next to him. “That’s better.” Propping himself up on an elbow, he swept the hair away from Olivier’s eyes and mouth and, always a firm believer in instinct, gave into his and kissed that damp forehead just once, yet fervently all the same. “Rest now, my dear one.”

They slept, curled up together under the canopy, pulling a bedspread over themselves when it grew too cold for comfort. Treville woke with his face pressed against the back of Olivier’s neck, an arm clamped tight around that slim body, and it felt so right that he could himself have wept.

As promised, Treville stayed by Olivier's side, assisting him with the reams of paperwork and instructing him, as best he could, on what duties he would now be expected to carry out. The lawyer, M d’Arras, was a great help and between them, the two older men managed to convince Olivier that he was perfectly able to run the estate and take on the mantle of Lord.

A week later the body of Adrien d’Athos, Comte de La Fère, was returned home by a troop of men, the coffin shrouded in regimental colours. The funeral was to take place immediately and whilst Thomas was occupied with ecclesiastical matters, Treville spent the few hours before the service alone with Olivier.

“I want to be a soldier,” the young man said a trifle petulantly as he paced the study like a caged beast. “I have only ever wanted to serve beside my father and you.” Refilling his claret glass from the decanter, he knocked it back in a single gulp. “Now he is dead and you are tied to court.” He huffed out a sigh of grievance. “And I have this.”

“Enough,” said Treville, taking the glass from him before he refilled it a third time. “On arriving here, all those years ago, I fully expected to be introduced to a brat. You were far from that then, so please do not abuse your position of privilege and turn into one now. You have much to be grateful for.”

“I do not have my father,” said Olivier. “I miss him.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to take the boy into his arms and comfort him, lips brushing against bearded cheek. What followed on from it was perhaps inevitable as they extended the moment into something intimate, something otherworldly in which their mouths sought each other out, the kisses growing increasingly heated, full of love and need. It was, however, not the right thing to do. Not now. Not ever.

“I will go back to Paris as soon as the funeral is over,” said Treville, resting his forehead against Olivier’s, a hand still locked around the back of his neck. 

“No,” said Olivier. “You promised you would not leave me.”

“I must return to the palace,” said Treville. “You know that. I have already been gone far too long.”

Olivier reached for more kisses, but Treville guided him carefully away. “We cannot,” he said. “However much you may want this, it will never be right. You know in your heart it is the truth.”

“I understand,” said Olivier, and he was shaking as he spoke the next words. “I will not trouble you again.”

That afternoon, as the sun began to sink slowly beneath the tree line, Treville cried silently as the body of his closest friend was laid to rest in the family crypt. The tears were not solely for this loss, but also for another that was proving just as painful to bear.


	6. Chapter 6

Politics was far from Treville’s favourite subject, but applying the precise meaning of the word he stayed away from La Fère, keeping a watchful eye on the brothers from afar and guiding them along the path of life by means of letter alone. 

His distance was not merely an excuse. As Louis grew older, he was becoming more determined to do things his own way and was now taking counsel from a new cardinal at court, one Armand de Richelieu, who in Treville’s eyes seemed a scoundrel, happy to debase himself with every earthly pleasure going. The man was possessed of a silvery forked tongue that enabled him to talk his way out of trouble whilst, at the same time, manipulating both the Queen Regent and her son with the skillful aplomb of a circus performer.

Certain from the beginning that Richelieu was not a spiritual man, Treville grew increasingly convinced that the cardinal was nothing more than a dishonourable thug, however any effort on his part to discredit the man only succeeded in distancing himself from the inner circle of court. This did not worry him in the slightest on a personal level--the further away the better as far as he was concerned--but he was honour bound to protect the King and did not intend to fail in his duty again.

“Treville,” said Louis, reloading his gun ready for the beaters to disturb some more game birds from the bracken. “The cardinal has suggested that it might be the time to set up a new regiment. The King’s Musketeers, how does that sound? A company of soldiers entirely devoted to me.”

“It sounds like an excellent idea, Majesty.” Treville could think of nothing bad about this plan. Perhaps Richelieu was not so self serving after all.

“He also thinks you would be the ideal commander of such a regiment,” continued Louis. “You will be responsible for setting up a new garrison within the city walls. You will handpick the men and ensure that they are of the highest quality. I will even issue them a Royal stipend in addition to their usual wage. Not too much of course as I’ve heard that soldiers like to waste their pay on drink and concubines.” The boy tittered with amusement at his risqué words.

It seemed appropriate, mused Treville. Drink and concubines were something of which the cardinal himself was most fond. “I will be glad to carry out your wishes, Sire,” he said. “Your Musketeers will protect you at all times.”

“No need,” said Louis airily. “Richelieu will be installing a new guard specifically for the palace. You and your men will be responsible for military matters away from court.”

Treville heaved in a deep sigh of irritation. This may have sounded like the ideal job--released from the shackles of servitude and returning to soldierly tasks--but he hated being manipulated at the best of times, and even more so when it was at the hands of a despicable little shit like Richelieu.

“It would perhaps be best if I continued to be responsible for your safety,” said Treville. “A man of the cloth is not experienced at such things.”

“Nonsense,” declared Louis. “Richelieu is formidable.” He lowered his voice. “He has even suggested to me that it might be time to move my mother away from court. How do you think she will take the news?”

“Very badly indeed, Majesty,” said Treville and neither one of them could suppress their smiles.

The King proved impossible to dissuade and so with little choice in the matter, Treville eventually conceded, putting heart and soul into the founding of his new regiment of Musketeers, visiting every company in the region and poaching only those soldiers he found to be exceptional. The lure of an extra purse was too good a temptation for any of them to refuse.

He had little time in which to write these days, but still found the odd moment to inform Olivier of developments, taking care to keep his sentiments buried deep, his correspondence remaining light hearted and factual. Olivier always replied promptly in the same fashion, telling Treville about his new life in the country. He’d chosen not to return to the army, determined to keep his word and look after his young brother who sounded as spoiled as ever. Children may thrive on attention, thought Treville, but it did them little favours in their passage towards adulthood. 

Reading through the latest missive from La Fère, he lapped up all the words, imagining he could hear Olivier’s voice speaking them out loud. His young friend sounded happy, excitable even, and it instilled in him a sense of joy that had been missing for so long.

Seated at his desk, he tied this last letter with the others and slipped the bundle into its hiding place behind a sheaf of military dispatches. Closing the drawer, he then locked it with a key that he kept on a chain attached to his belt at all times. His correspondence with Olivier was not top secret, nor was it incriminating, but it was personal.

There was a knock and the door opened abruptly. 

“M de Treville, you have visitors,” said Serge. “Shall I show them up?”

“Did they give you their names?” asked Treville.

“They did but I’ve forgotten 'em,” said the old retainer. 

Serge had been part of the Gardes Françaises since Treville could remember and when Captain des Essarts retired and his company was assimilated into the Musketeers, Treville had neither the heart nor the will to let the old fellow go. The army was his life.

“It’s a gentleman and a lady, Sir,” continued Serge as if that nugget of information was any help whatsoever.

“Then don’t keep them waiting,” replied Treville, mustering some patience from thin air. “Show them in.”

He had little idea of whom to expect, but he certainly wouldn’t have guessed it would be Olivier de La Fère striding into his office, immaculately dressed with a neatly shorn beard and looking damnably fine -- more handsome than ever in fact. His good looks were enhanced by the smile of utter joy on his face which no doubt had something to do with the beautiful woman who was attached to his arm.

“My boy,” said Treville, rising to greet this most welcome of visitors. “How good it is to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

“Five years,” said Olivier. “Too long indeed.” His head dipped and that familiar shy smile appeared on his face. “I came here to introduce you to Anne.” He was clearly entranced by this woman. “Anne, this is M de Treville, my dearest friend.”

She surveyed him with cool green eyes, appraising every part of him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Athos has not _quite_ bored me with stories of you yet, but your name is often on his lips.”

“Athos?” Treville turned to Olivier, surprised to hear him referred to as such.

“It’s a family tradition to take on that name,” he replied. “But call me whatever you wish. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Then Olivier you will remain,” said Treville, clapping him on the shoulder.

“If you’ll excuse me I shall leave you gentlemen to catch up on old times,” said Anne. “I have an appointment with the dressmaker.” 

Her expression was one of utter satisfaction and something about it disquieted Treville. She held out a gloved hand to him and he took it then kissed it, as was expected, but it did not please him to do so. Innocent creature she might appear to be, but there was something beneath the surface that he did not like. Was it simply jealousy fueling his distrust?

Olivier kissed her goodbye, holding both of her hands between his and clutching at them as if he could not bear to be parted. He watched wide eyed as she descended the steps and then closed the door only when she was out of sight.

“I am a lucky man,” he stated, perching on the edge of the desk. 

Treville poured two glasses of wine from the decanter and passed one over to his companion. “She’s an attractive woman,” he said. “How did you come to be acquainted?”

“She turned up at La Fère in a desperate state,” said Olivier. “Her brother had just died and she was distraught. They had escaped an abusive master and she had nowhere to turn. How could someone treat a sixteen year old girl in such a cruel way?”

Treville attempted to hide his disbelief. The woman had far more years on her than that. He’d put her closer to Olivier in age, if not older.

“I intend to marry her,” said Olivier. “But I came here in hope of receiving your blessing.”

“If that is what you wish then I am happy for you,” replied Treville, placing his glass on the desk and folding his hands behind his back. “But take your time, Olivier. Get to know her first. Find out everything you can before jumping into the marriage bed.”

The young man blushed a hot crimson in colour and it was clear that the couple had already spent time between the sheets. “I have known her a month and it has been the happiest of my life,” he said, narrowing the gap between them. “ _Almost_ the happiest.” 

He leaned in and his lips touched Treville’s neck, igniting such an explosion of desire that Treville was unable to prevent himself from letting out an involuntary gasp of pleasure. Gravitating towards one another, they reconnected, soft swipe of tongues intermingled with breathy sighs at having each other again in this way. 

“I will always love you above all others,” said Olivier, when the kiss was finally over.

“I give you my blessing,” said Treville, head hanging and eyes fixed to the ground, weighed down by the ache in his heart. 

Olivier left Paris and life went on. Treville threw himself into his work, recruiting new soldiers and keeping them tied to the training yard until their skills were honed to perfection. He had his favourites, but it came as a relief to him that he never desired any of them. His passion was a single flame that burned brightly inside him, never to be extinguished. 

“Aramis, Marsac, you’re both exercising your mouths far more than your sword arms. Stop talking and spar,” he shouted from the balcony.

“Yes, sir,” replied the older of the two, but the younger soldier, Aramis, looked upwards with a cocksure smile on his face.

“But how can we improve on perfection, Captain? Let me fight any man in this company and I will win, whether it be sword, pistol or hand to hand.”

“You would defeat anyone at arrogance, that is for certain,” said Treville. “However, I’m not so sure about the rest of your claims.” Descending the steps, he unsheathed his blade and adopted a fighting stance. “Let’s see how good you really are, Aramis.”

Steel clashed against steel. The boy was indeed outstanding, but his swordsmanship was all about the flair and he was not decisive enough by a long way. 

“Stop showboating,” instructed Treville. “This is not entertainment.” Upping his efforts he launched a sudden charge, his blade whipping in all directions until Aramis was disarmed, defeated and lying on the floor looking up at him with the other soldiers applauding from the benches.

“You should train us yourself, Captain,” said Aramis, getting slowly to his feet. “You’re the best swordsman I’ve ever seen.”

“The only difference between us is that I understand what war is about,” said Treville. “One day you will too.”

That day came all too soon when Treville was forced to do the one thing he despised. A loyal man to the end, his duty lay with the King and, following orders, he sacrificed a troop of his own Musketeers for the sake of politics.

He was sickened at the sight of young Aramis returning to the garrison a broken man, shouldering the weight of all those deaths when the burden did not belong to him.

Unable to tell him the truth of the matter, Treville did everything else in his power to restore the young soldier to his former self, but in the end it was one of the new recruits who rescued that lost soul. Porthos was a giant of a man, of mixed race and brought up in the slum that was the Court of Miracles. Most from there became drunkards or criminals, usually both, but not Porthos. He had a soldier's spirit and along with it a kind heart that no one could ignore, not even a broken boy like Aramis.

Seeing the young man slowly come back to life was a blessing, but it did little to ease Treville’s inner pain. He had done his duty and yet in doing so had behaved with the utmost dishonour. Mindless from lack of sleep, he did the only thing he could think of and, explaining away his absence as that of a family crisis, he rode north to his sanctuary at the Chateau La Fère for a few days respite.

Shown through into the drawing room by an unfamiliar housemaid, he poured himself a drink to steady his nerves, glad that it was Olivier alone who arrived to greet him -- the master of the house.

“I should have written,” he said, shame faced at turning up unexpectedly and in such a dishevelled state. “I apologise.”

“Never,” said Olivier, embracing him warmly. “You are family.” He stepped back a pace. “All is not well with you.”

“It is nothing of concern,” replied Treville. “I needed to see a friendly face and could think of no other place I'd rather be.”

The clipping sound of heels on floorboards heralded the arrival of others and, for once, Treville was relieved at the interruption. He wasn’t ready to unburden himself just yet. It would take time. Perhaps forever.

“We shall talk later,” said Olivier, as determined as always.

“M de Treville,” came a deep baritone voice. “Do you remember me?”

Treville was surprised at the changes in Thomas, who had grown from a rather stolid boy into a good looking fellow.

“Of course, Thomas,” he said. “It’s a pleasure. I expected you to be wearing cleric’s robes by now.”

“No.” He laughed. “I was very forthright about my vocation when I was young, but now that I’m grown I realise the church is not for me. I am betrothed and will be married soon.”

“But you cannot yet be twenty years old,” said Treville in dismay. “Why the hurry?”

“Catherine and I do not see the point of waiting, but at least we are not being as hasty as my dear brother.”

Olivier’s jaw tightened and the tension between the two young men was palpable. “Jean has not come to hear us arguing,” he said. “Hold your tongue.”

Excusing himself in order to smarten up for dinner, Treville stood at the window of the old nursery, looking out at the woods and wishing fervently that he could go back and revisit the past to a time when Athos was alive and life here was an idyll. 

“Now I am the one who needs to apologise,” said a soft voice from behind him. “Please excuse our poor behaviour.”

Treville turned to see Olivier standing in the doorway. Slipping a fresh shirt over his head he tucked it into his breeches. “All is not well here either I see.”

“Anne and I are trying to make our marriage work.” The young man closed the door and leant back against its solid wooden surface. “We’d stand a chance of happiness if it weren’t for Thomas and Catherine’s constant sniping. I wish they would wed and leave La Fère for good, ‘though I doubt the last part will ever happen.”

“You are the Comte,” said Treville with a shrug. “Make it happen.”

“If only life were that simple,” said Olivier. “As Lord, it is my duty to look after my people and also my family. I cannot simply cast them out. Perhaps if Anne and I ever have children things will change.”

“What you need is some soldiering to lift your spirits,” said Treville, but then his thoughts turned to Aramis suffering so badly in Savoy and he fell silent.

“What we both need is a drink,” said Olivier, stepping in close to tie Treville's cravat. 

What they both needed was something they could never have, thought Treville, resisting the urge to land a kiss on Olivier’s lips, wanting more than anything to taste that mouth and see how the scar felt beneath his tongue now that it was little more than a pale line.

Dinner that evening was not the gentlemen’s mess night that Treville had been used to when staying at La Fère in the past. The presence of ladies altered the dynamics considerably, although he was still uncertain whether Anne could be described as such.

The new Comtesse possessed an extraordinary beauty and, much like Cardinal Richelieu, was owner of a silver tongue, although hers was more barbed and the comments she aimed at Thomas’ betrothed were subtle but cruel.

Catherine de Garouville was plain in comparison to her rival, the unbecoming hairstyle only emphasising her angular features and pallid complexion. She was open in her dislike for Anne and Thomas played along with enjoyment. 

“I was surprised not to have Mme Jaccard welcome me,” remarked Treville. In fact there was not one familiar face amongst all the staff that he had seen so far.

“She felt it was time to retire,” said Anne with a guileless expression. “Athos offered her a good pension and a lovely cottage in the village which she could not refuse.”

Out of the corner of his eye Treville noticed that Olivier’s head hung low as he refilled the wine glasses. “And Charlotte?” he asked, having always enjoyed the boost that came from the housemaid’s rather obvious crush on him.

“She left for another household,” Anne replied airily. 

“With some persuasion also,” muttered Catherine.

Treville wished he had not brought the subject up at all and changed topic to one that would suit the ladies and hopefully be less incendiary.

“The Queen Regent has taken to wearing some extraordinary devices in her hair,” he said. “They seem more like engineering contraptions than millinery. I doubt they will catch on.”

It was a clever switch and, whilst the women still argued from different positions it was in a much less acerbic way than before, and the three gentlemen were finally able to finish dining in peace.

“Surely you do not need to retire quite so early?” said Olivier, when Treville got up from the table. 

“I am exhausted,” he said and it was indeed partly the reason for turning in. If he and Olivier had been alone in the dining room, discussing matters military as they had done in the past, it would have been hard to tear himself away, but the old days were gone and it seemed the women had no intention of withdrawing.

“Then I shall see you tomorrow,” said Olivier. “We’ll go riding.”

Twin smiles drew them together, linking back to a shared history.

“I’d enjoy that,” replied Treville.

“I’ll come too,” declared Anne.

“No,” said Olivier and from the look on his wife’s face it seemed as if dissent from him was not something that happened often within their marriage. “I wish to spend time with my friend.”

Treville left before the arguments flared up again, making his way upstairs, glad that Athos was not here to see the tension that existed between his family. His friend had wanted the boys to become closer as they grew up and yet they seemed more distant with each other than ever.

Sliding under the bedcovers he prayed for some rest, but sadly the chateau was not the tranquil haven he had longed for and, once again, he failed to find peace, sleeping fitfully and dreaming of a field full of massacred boys. There was nothing he could do to put this right. He had laid blame on himself for the death of King Henry when it was never truly his fault. The business at Savoy, however, rested with him alone and there was no escaping its ghosts.

Awake at dawn, he was up and dressed before a tray was brought to his room. Olivier, also an early riser, was pleased to see him, his demeanour more relaxed than it had been the night before as they breakfasted together in the dining room.

“You are not sleeping well,” he said, leaning forward and brushing a thumb across dark shadows that bruised the delicate skin beneath Treville’s eyes. “Come. Let us play truant for the day and you can tell me your sorrows.”

Leaping up from his chair he charged out of the room, and Treville felt the years drop away as he raced through the lower corridors of the house, following his unruly friend.

“Tack up the horses,” Olivier instructed the groom, bent double and out of breath from running.

“You're unfit,” teased Treville, who despite being in his forties was faring much better. “Must I come here twice a week to train you?”

“I wish you would,” said Olivier, regaining his breath and standing at last, hands on hips. “Promise me you will.”

“I only promise what I can fulfill,” said Treville, mounting his horse. “Join the Musketeers instead.” He was most serious about this offer.

“I’ll think about it,” said Olivier as he swung up into the saddle. “I believe it would make me happy.”

“I know it would,” said Treville and with a tug at the reins he squeezed gently at the mare's flanks, encouraging her out of the yard.

After an energetic gallop in the sunshine Treville felt stones lighter. Coming home to La Fère had been the right decision after all. Taking a break, the two men tethered the horses to a single tree at the top of a hill and lay side by side in the meadow grass.

“Will you tell me now what is troubling you?” said Olivier, propped up on an elbow.

“You know everything about me. Why do you not know this already?” Treville teased him again, skirting a path around the uncomfortable cloud that hung over him at all times.

“Because you keep this part of you locked away,” said Olivier with such a level of compassion that it was painful to experience.

Treville was reminded of that bundle of letters, bound with a dark blue ribbon and kept at the back of a drawer. That was a good secret -- not healthy perhaps and yet it rallied him when times were hard. This, on the contrary, was something horrible, a blood red stain on his character. Could he speak of it? Should he?

“I carried out an order so terrible that dozens of my men were killed,” he said at last, finally admitting the truth to another person. 

“Soldiers die in battle all the time,” said Olivier in that gentle tone of voice.

“It was not a war. I made the decision to sacrifice them,” continued Treville.

“Because you were ordered to do so,” said Olivier. “These are not your ghosts that haunt you, Jean. They belong to someone else.”

Treville shook his head, turning away. “They are mine. They will always be mine and I have a constant reminder of that back at the garrison.”

Olivier reached out, clasping at his shoulder and turning him once again until they were face to face. He stroked his hand through Treville's close cropped hair, sliding a thumb across his lips and then tugging at him until they lay in a new position with Treville's head resting on his chest.

“Then use this reminder of yours wisely as a compass to keep you on the right path,” he said. 

“You are my compass and I thank God that I have you,” replied Treville and once again his heart ached, but this time with joy at the pleasure of being held this way.

“Always,” said Olivier. “I am yours. Patroclus to your Achilles.”

“You are my Achilles.” The most beautiful. The chink in his armour. Treville grew faint, blood thundering through his ears, pulse racing. To be here like this was too much and he could no longer keep his feelings hidden. “I love you,” he declared and it was a sentence long overdue.

In this perfect place with only the sound of wind whispering through the seed heads to disturb the silence, he pushed Olivier onto his back, reaching for that beautiful mouth that haunted him as much as his ghosts. There followed a moment of understanding between them as they gazed at each other, accepting the inevitable, and then they kissed again, urgently this time with intent to do more.

Clumsy with longing, Treville sought out warm skin with his lips, tugging at Olivier's breeches and small clothes then pressing his mouth to each thigh in turn. Olivier squirmed with delight, pulling him back into his arms for more kisses until they were lying together, bare where it mattered, bodies locked together. Filled with wonder, with need, Treville gave up his denial and made love to Olivier, stifling his moans of pleasure with mouthfuls of sun warmed skin as he felt the swell rise inside him. He came with a shudder, overwhelmed by the knowledge that they belonged together and had done so from the beginning.

Slipping a hand between them, he grasped Olivier, sticky with his seed, and the touch alone was enough to have the young man bucking upwards helplessly and spilling over his fingers as Treville’s aching heart burst at the seams.

“We are finally lovers,” said Olivier when he had recovered enough to speak, his eyes bright with happiness, not a single ounce of regret to be seen.

“We have been so for many years,” said Treville and it was his turn to be the solemn one as he cleaned them with his handkerchief. He then broke into a smile. “Although without the mess.”

“I like the mess.” Olivier lay sprawled decadently in their nest of grass, half undressed, rumpled and sinful. “I want to be covered in you always.”

Kneeling up to fasten his breeches, Treville caught movement out of the corner of his eye and was startled enough to jump to his feet and look around him. There was no one to be seen and he sank back into their makeshift bed with a sigh of relief.

“What?” asked Olivier.

“I thought I saw someone, but it must have been the horses moving about,” replied Treville.

“No one comes here,” said Olivier. “There’s a legend that this place is haunted. It keeps everyone away.” He laughed and trailed a finger down Treville’s chest. “Maybe it was the ghost.”

“I have enough of those already,” said Treville, reaching out for Olivier's hand. “But you’re good at laying them to rest. You soothe me.”

“And more I hope.” Olivier raised an eyebrow.

“And more indeed.” Treville had regrets piled everywhere, but the one that irked the most was that he had waited so long to give in to his feelings. Now Olivier was a married man and he would once again be tortured by his actions. He had led him astray. To be unfaithful was a sin, but to lie with another man was a criminal act and punishable by death. 

Olivier, however, did not appear to suffer from the same worries. “I’ll join you at the garrison if you’ll have me,” he said, his mouth tipping upwards into a half smile. “It is, after all, my duty as Comte de la Fère to offer my services to the crown.”

“I will have you,” replied Treville and, cares forgotten, he pressed his lips to Olivier's throat. “I’ll have you as often as is humanly possible.”

For the next three days Treville floated on air, in love and accepting it for the first time in his life. He was forty one years old and, apart from a few unsatisfying fumbles with prostitutes, this was the first time he had given himself, body and soul, to anyone. It was a constant source of delight, just as Olivier was in every way. They made love to each other whenever they could steal a moment of time together and Treville was growing experienced with his hands, knowing how best to bring the young man to fulfillment. At first he had been wary of letting Olivier return the favour, feeling uncomfortable for some reason as if he were asking a child to pleasure him, but Olivier soon set him straight.

“I am a grown man and I want you, so let me have you,” he said with a quirk of the lips.

The pleasure he gave was extraordinary, on his knees with his mouth sliding up and down over hard flesh, and Treville wondered where he could have learned such a glorious thing.

Their parting was conducted in the solitude of Olivier's study where they exchanged kisses and promises.

“I will explain to my wife that I am joining the regiment and be with you as soon as possible,” said Olivier. “I know we cannot be this to each other whilst we are at the garrison, but it will be enough to be near you. At least there I can offer you my support when you need me.”

“My darling boy,” said Treville, catching him around the waist and covering his face with kisses. “I should have-”

Olivier silenced him with a determined press of mouths. “What’s done is done,” he said. “At least we can be together now, in heart if not in body.” He paused and smiled. “We two alone.”

When the study door opened they remained locked in a warm embrace.

“Treville is leaving for Paris today,” said Olivier by way of explanation.

“That is a shame,” said Anne. “Both Athos and I will miss you terribly.”

“Likewise,” said Treville in a gruff voice. He was not used to faux pleasantries. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“I shall see you soon,” said Olivier as they embraced once more and then walked arm in arm to the front door.

“ _We_ shall see you soon,” corrected Anne, offering Treville a dainty hand to kiss. “You are always welcome in our home.”

Feeling distinctly unwelcome, Treville mounted his waiting horse and cantered away down the driveway, not daring to look back in case of giving himself away. He was so much in love it must be shining from him like a beacon.


	7. Chapter 7

Treville waited for Olivier’s arrival at the garrison, his excitement giving way to a gnawing sense of unease as time passed and there was still no word from him.

A change of heart was understandable and there could be many reasons for such. Perhaps Anne was with child. If so Olivier would never desert her for soldiering, but if this had been the case then surely he would have written to explain. Their letters to each other had continued throughout good times and bad and up until now his own had never remained unanswered, yet he had sent two since arriving back at the garrison and had heard nothing in return.

Of a mind to visit La Fère and see what was wrong, Treville's plans were then thwarted when all hell broke loose at the palace. Under Richelieu's guidance, Louis cast his mother out of court and was crowned King in full ceremony, anointed by God and with the blessing of Rome. His first act as monarch was to declare war on the Huguenots in the south west, reintroducing Catholicism and revoking the Edict of Nantes which had kept a tenuous peace in France for twenty years. There was a rebellion, the army marched on Saint-Jean-d'Angély and La Rochelle, and Treville trained his new Musketeers night and day in preparation for civil war.

“What will we actually be doing there, Captain?” asked Porthos, filling a flagon of ale from the barrel. “If we ever get there, that is.”

“Besieging the city.” Treville recalled the horrors of Amiens. “Don't wish for it too soon, Porthos. We may be entrenched for months. It will not be pleasant.”

“Why can’t we go now?” replied Porthos. “We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be.”

“The king needs us in Paris at present,” explained Treville. He was always patient when dealing with his young soldiers. It was the best way to keep them grounded. “We will march out when Richelieu deems it necessary. In the meantime, on with the training.”

Aramis was noticeably silent on the subject and Treville took him to one side. “Is everything all right?” he asked, an arm about his shoulder.

“I’m not certain how well I will cope after Savoy,” admitted Aramis. “I’m frightened.”

“All soldiers are frightened,” said Treville. “I know you will do admirably with Porthos by your side.”

Aramis grinned suddenly, his eyes turning to the training mats where his friend was now busy showing off his wrestling skills. “I'd best be there to keep him safe,” he said. “Lord knows what he'd get up to without me.”

Months passed by with still no orders from the palace. Stuck here in the garrison, Treville longed for escape and when ugly rumours started circulating about the fate of a young nobleman from a nearby province he fell into a panic, taking one of the horses and riding immediately to La Fère.

The house he arrived at was not one he was familiar with, no longer welcoming and instead shrouded in darkness with its doors barred. It seemed as if there was no one in occupation, not even a servant, and, after considering the consequences of his actions, Treville then took it upon himself to break in and see what could have happened here to cause the place to become derelict.

Lantern lit, he prowled the downstairs, finding nothing of note until he reached the drawing room where he discovered the gruesome sight of a blood stained floor. He was sickened and with heart in his mouth he left the building and rode directly to Piñon.

“What has become of the Comte?” he asked the innkeeper, still breathless from the gallop.

The two men were familiar to one another, Treville having stopped off frequently for a tankard of ale or two, and he knew Bertrand would be truthful.

“It was a nasty business,” said the innkeeper. “The Comtesse killed Master Thomas and the Comte had her hanged immediately. Don’t know if it was lawful, but he was out of his mind with grief, poor young fellow. Nothing good ever comes to the de la Fères. My wife, God bless her soul, always said that the family were cursed.” 

Treville swallowed down his misery. Upset wouldn't help Olivier. Action needed to be taken. “Where is the Comte now?” he asked.

“Gone,” said Bertrand with a shrug. “He sent everyone away. He wouldn't even talk to Mme Jaccard and lord knows she tried. I saw him the day he left. Tried to stop him because he wasn’t in a fit state to be riding. Must have drunk the wine cellar dry.”

“Where did he go?” persisted Treville.

“Couldn’t tell you, Sir,” said Bertrand. “He was so out of it he could barely speak.”

“And where does Mme Jaccard live?” asked Treville. She would likely know where Olivier would run to in times of trouble.

“Last house on the left, opposite the smithy,” said Bertrand pointing up the street. “Although I doubt you’ll get a sensible word out of her. She’s been addled since she left the Comte’s service. It was a shock for her to be dismissed in such a thoughtless way.”

“Thank you,” said Treville. “I’ll talk to her and see what sense she makes.”

The cottage was not quite the picturesque place that Anne had described. It was little more than a hovel, its walls sooted with smoke from the blacksmith's forge. Not the most pleasant of homes after living in relative grandeur for years, even below stairs.

When Mme Jaccard opened the door Treville barely recognised her as the jovial housekeeper who had once ruled La Fère from her rooms next to the servants’ hall. Small and pinched looking, her eyes were rheumy with age, but they brightened considerably on seeing Treville.

“Oh, Monsieur,” she said. “Please tell me Master Olivier is safe with you. He’s too young to be lost.”

Treville could see now what the innkeeper had meant by addled. “He’s fine,” he assured the old woman. “Can you tell me what happened up at the chateau? I believe you were there afterwards.”

“It was a dreadful thing,” said Mme Jaccard, frowning as she forced her mind to function. “She.” She spat the word out as if it was a thing of disgust. “She killed young Thomas, stuck a knife in him over and over again. What else could the master do but hang her? I told him that what he did was justified, but he wouldn’t believe me. Kept going on and on about being a dishonourable wretch. Tried to drink himself to death just like his grandfather had done. He sent all the staff away and then one morning he was gone.” Her expression glazed over. “He’s my little boy, see? I had him since he was a babe. You’ll look after him, Sir. You always have done.”

“I will,” said Treville. “I promise. Is there anything I can fetch for you before I leave?”

“They take care of me well enough here,” said Mme Jaccard shaking her head. “Don’t let him fall in the pond again. He’ll catch a cold and it'll go to his chest.”

With a heavy heart, Treville mounted up and rode through the dusty market square then out into the lane. Even as a youth Olivier had been there for him, counselling him when he needed advice, and now, when the young man needed him the most, Treville wasn’t there for him. He rejoined the garrison, a shadow of his former self, barely able to muster the strength to command his men. He worked hard at it, however, keeping up appearances and barking out orders from the gantry, despite the fact that his soul was not in it.

When word finally arrived from the cardinal, ordering the Musketeers to march on Saint-Jean-d'Angély, it came as a blessing, giving Treville something to occupy himself with other than his fruitless search for Olivier. It had been months now with no sign of the man and Treville could only assume that he’d achieved his wish and drunk himself to death. This hurt him deeply--it was a festering wound inside him--but he had to keep going for the sake of his men.

The company of young Musketeers were in exuberant mood as they rode south west to battle. The reactions, as they passed through the villages were mixed, a few rotten eggs thrown at them intermingled with cheers for the King.

“Let me have one swing at the blighter who threw who chucked that tomato at me,” growled Porthos, wiping the remnants of fruit from his leather doublet. “I’ll teach them a bloody lesson.”

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Aramis. “Your assailant was sixty if she were a day.”

“Save your fighting for the Huguenots at the front,” ordered Treville, aiming a stern look at Porthos. He sympathised, but it would not do to show it.

The next village they entered was loyal to the crown, offering the soldiers bread and wine.

Taking the rations gratefully, Treville opted to rest here for the night and had the men set up temporary camp in a field by the river. Rabbits were snared then spit roasted over fires and the mood was jovial as the soldiers sat around, eating, drinking and telling tall tales of imaginary battles they had fought. They were all too young to have any knowledge of such things.

“Were you involved in the last war, Sir?” asked Porthos.

“Yes,” replied Treville. “And it was a gruesome affair. “The Spanish forces had taken Amiens and we besieged the city for months. We thought they’d never give up. Some of the men even suggested using English tactics and launching disease ridden corpses over the walls.”

“You didn’t do that,” said Aramis, his eyes wide with horror.

Treville smiled, always at ease with these two young men despite the history he shared with Aramis. They were his finest soldiers in the regiment and they reminded him in so many ways of Athos and himself -- the truest of companions. He had never stopped grieving for his friend and he knew now that he never would, especially at a time like this.

“No, we didn’t,” he continued. “General Crillon was a good commander and knew how to keep our spirits raised whilst we waited for the Spanish to attack.”

“And what was it like when you saw their forces advancing for the first time?” asked Aramis.

“It was terrifying, but at the same time exhilarating,” admitted Treville, remembering with clarity the expression on Athos’ face as he loaded his musket ready. “My friend and I were young, no older than you two, and we had been waiting all our lives for this moment.”

He would not tell them the rest. The truth of what it felt like to shoot a pistol at close range and watch a man’s head explode. To slice a blade through leather, skin and muscle then see what guts looked like, still pulsing with life. To have your dearest friend fall next to you and know that you must leave him to his fate.

“Protect your brothers-in-arms at all costs,” he continued. “For they are your strength.” He patted Aramis on the arm and stood up. “Now I believe it is time to put away the wine bottles and get some sleep. Tomorrow we will arrive at our destination, so be prepared for trouble.”

“Always, Sir,” said Porthos with sincerity. “I have to be since Aramis here leads me into it all the time.”

Treville laughed and squeezed Porthos on the shoulder. “That I can believe. Now see to the horses and then take your rest, gentlemen.”

Pissing against a tree then laying out his bedroll, he listened to the comforting sounds of chatter amongst his men and knew that he had chosen well. These boys had the makings of fine soldiers, they would do him proud and he prayed for each one of them to make it through this most senseless of all wars -- Frenchman fighting Frenchman.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the wonderful [FromPella](http://frompella.tumblr.com/)

  


* * *

Treville’s nerves were on edge as they rode in a column towards Saint-Jean-d'Angély. There was a hum in the air rather than the usual roar of battle and he knew immediately from the sight of the full gibbets that, one way or another, the siege was over. 

Calling the company to a halt, he took out his spyglass and viewed the rows of hanged bodies at the gates, knowing from their attire that they were Protestant soldiers. 

“Our army is victorious. The town has been won back,” he said and although he understood the disappointment on the faces of his men, he himself was relieved that their lives were not yet at risk. “Wait here,” he instructed. “Aramis, Porthos, ride with me. I need to speak to the General.”

As always, the leader wasn’t hard to find. To unearth a victorious commander one only had to look for the richest of dwellings, or, during battle, seek out the highly decorated thoroughbred that stood furthest away from the enemy.

General de la Mothe Arnaud was to be found in the mayor’s residence, dining on a veritable feast.

Treville bowed and introduced himself, not that the man appeared to be interested. “I am Captain Treville of the King’s Musketeers and have been ordered here by Cardinal Richelieu.”

“You and your men are too late, Captain,” said the general through a mouthful of roast boar. His table manners were appalling. “Go to La Rochelle. Our forces are blockading there now. Speak to General de Corbeville. He may still have use for latecomers. I certainly do not.”

Summarily dismissed by a wave of the hand, the Musketeers marched out of the room, weaponry rattling in irritation. 

“What a cunt,” said Porthos and received an elbow in the ribs from Aramis as caution. “Well he was,” muttered the big man. “Don’t see the harm in saying it.”

Treville, a pace or two behind them, pretended not to hear. It would be hypocritical of him to argue seeing as he was firmly in agreement.

“What now?” said Aramis as they returned to their company. “How far is it to La Rochelle?”

“Two days ride,” said Treville, who knew the area of old. “We’ll make camp here then move out at first light.”

“Wouldn't it be better if we headed there now?” asked Porthos. “We don’t want to miss out on the next one like we did this.”

“Porthos,” berated Treville. “Enough of your exuberance. You can use up some of that excess energy by digging the latrine pit.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the big soldier, shamefaced at his insubordination.

“And you can go help him, Aramis,” added Treville as punishment for the resultant peal of laughter. They were a couple of reprobates, but they brightened his world considerably.

At day break, Treville led the column of mounted soldiers onwards to La Rochelle. There was a faint air of impatience exuding from the men, but generally they were in good spirits, being well fed and rested. He knew of old that there was nothing worse than being thrust into battle, having to fight with tired eyes and an empty belly.

The journey was a straightforward one and the only problem Treville encountered on the way was learning how to quell the aura of anticipation in his eager party of young bloods. During rest times the soldiers were fired up, encouraging each other to mischief and using up too much of their energy in all kinds of contests -- mostly of Porthos and Aramis’ devising.

“If you two rogues don’t stop relieving them of their wages, then I’ll relieve you permanently of yours ” Treville reprimanded them. “In the meantime, I’ll have these,” he added, confiscating the deck.

He wasn't naïve. He could tell from the cheeky grin on Porthos' face that there were myriad ways of gambling that had nothing to do with cards, but at least the pair might be more cautious from now on.

The Musketeers arrived at their destination some time after noon on the second day of travel. There was no mistaking the sound of the cannon fire and after calling the company to a halt, Treville both rallied his men and reined in their excitement. 

“You will await my orders,” he said with a sideways glance at Porthos. “No charging into battle with little thought of what you might achieve. We’ll find out first from General de Corbeville where we can best be used.”

His view of the town from the earthworks, cleverly constructed by their sappers, was Treville's second vision of Hell. The harbour was a wild sight. Ships were caught alight and burning with such a ferocity that it was unclear whether they were French navy or the English come to support their Protestant brethren. 

Leaving his men at a safe distance behind the artillery position, Treville took Aramis and Porthos with him and headed for the general’s tent.

“Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers,” he announced to the adjutant who then showed them inside the sanctum.

General de Corbeville was mustachioed and dashing, a true cavalry officer in appearance, but it was the look of defeat on his face that gave Treville cause for concern. Opposite him, hands braced on the campaign desk, was a mud splattered, bloodied young man, who was speaking to him urgently.

“I have been inside the town, General, and I know what the situation is in there. The Huguenots are nowhere near surrender. If we march on them so soon it will be suicide.”

“And if we do not attack now then our artillery will be out of ammunition and there will be no support at all. Take your regiment and aim for the breach in the walls at first light, M d’Athos.”

Treville’s heart had leapt into his throat at first glimpse of that familiar and much loved sight. Olivier’s voice was rough where it was once melodious, his hair was matted with filth. Everything about him was battle scarred and broken, but he was as beautiful to Treville as ever. More so in fact, for he had long been convinced that his belovéd man had been lost to him forever.

“If those are your orders then it seems I have no choice in the matter,” said Olivier, wheeling about and marching out of the tent without a single glance at the newcomers. It took all of Treville’s strength not to charge after him. They were kindred spirits--much more than that now--and he had missed him with a level of intensity that was beyond rational, but there was duty to think of and that must come before any personal matter, even a lost love.

“Captain?” muttered Aramis under his breath, raising his eyebrows and inclining his head in the direction of the general who was, by now, staring at them, an expectant look on his face.

“M de Treville, Captain of the King's Musketeers,” said Treville by means of introduction. “At your service.”

“Have you come with supply wagons?” asked the General.

“No, Sir,” replied Treville. “Just my company of men.”

“Then what damn use are you to the war? I sent word that we were desperately low on ammunition and Richelieu dispatches cannon fodder.” The General leant forward, his hands locked together, thumbs circling each other as he considered the matter. “Your men are good?” he said eventually.

“The best,” replied Treville with certainty. They were gifted soldiers with a high level of training. The one thing they lacked was experience.

“Then you will support the Carabins when they lead the charge tomorrow. Stay back and use your skills as musketeers to pick off the rebels if they counterattack.”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Treville with a heavy heart. So Olivier's men were being used as a target to draw the Huguenots into open battle. “But if we fought alongside them would we not be of more assistance?”

His own words sickened him. If the general agreed to this then, God forbid, he would be sacrificing young Aramis for a second time.

“No, Captain,” said de Corbeville. “You will follow my orders. This is the only chance we have.”

Dismissed with a raised hand, the three men left the tent and returned to the ranks of the Musketeers.

“What do you reckon, Captain?” asked Porthos as they approached their own soldiers, who were lounging around, awaiting news.

“How can I know anything when we have only just arrived here?” snapped Treville, losing his temper, not with Porthos but in frustration at the situation. One way or another, he would be forced to choose between the people he valued most in the world. 

Halting in his tracks he surveyed the area around him, searching for one specific banner amongst the many emblems that fluttered above the encampment. The stench of siege was something he would never forget, the stink of mud, excrement and blood combining together with cooking smells and woodsmoke to form the most foul of odours. It would only get worse, for as of yet they were still on the outside of it.

Having found what he was looking for, Treville then offered Porthos an apologetic handshake. “We are fortunate to have been given this task. I will address the men now and then we’ll make camp for the night.”

“Those cavalrymen are not so lucky,” said Aramis quietly. 

Treville shook his head, unable to compose himself enough to reply. 

The Musketeers’ enthusiasm was insuppressible at the news. All they had wished for was a chance of battle and Treville hoped they would feel the same once the initial onslaught was over. He very much doubted it.

“Tomorrow we will move up towards the city walls and you will remain in formation at all costs. Discipline is essential and you will do exactly as I say, when I say it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” came the resounding cry from the ranks.

“Now eat, rest and prepare yourselves,” said Treville. This time there would be no out. They were committed to this course of action and must prove themselves worthy at all costs.

“Where are you going, Captain?” asked Aramis, catching up to Treville as he was about to leave their small camp.

“There is someone here I need to have a word with,” said Treville. 

“You will not go far?”

“No, I won’t.” The way Aramis looked to him as protector made Treville deeply ashamed to his core. If the young soldier ever found out the truth then his illusions would rightly be shattered. “And I will not be long.”

“We’ll come with you,” said Porthos, guardian to all by nature. 

“Not necessary,” said Treville. He had spotted the flag of the Carabins Rouges no more than five hundred yards away. “Get some rest, gentlemen. You’ll need it.”

To find Olivier de la Fère had been Treville's mission for nigh on a year, but he had given up all hope of it as late, accepting that his dearest friend--his love--had been lost. To discover him here of all places was remarkable -- enough to have him believe in the mysteries of God.

Stepping around the resting bodies of soldiers, some of them intimately involved with camp followers, he made his way through the mire to the area set aside for cavalry regiments, stopping to ask one of the Carabin men for the location of their leader.

“We have no leader,” replied the soldier. “We have no men left to captain.”

“And M d’Athos.” Treville qualified his request. “Where is he?”

“Athos?” The soldier barked out a laugh. “Drunk in the mud somewhere I would imagine.”

Treville left the soldier to his misery and began searching the sorry bundles of humanity, all of them wounded and desperate, afraid of what the next day might bring. He found Olivier, some distance away from the rest, hunched over and well on the way to being inebriated as his comrade had rightly suggested.

Sitting down beside him, Treville took the bottle from his hand and drank deeply from it. “I’ve been searching for you,” he said.

“And now you have found me,” replied Olivier, not sounding at all surprised to see him.

“You recognised me when we were in with de Corbeville,” said Treville, laying the bottle on its side and letting the wine flow away into the mud.

“I did,” said Olivier. “I would have much rather not seen you here.”

“Olivier,” said Treville, letting his hand rest on a forearm for a brief second before removing it. “After all that we have been to each other, do not push me away. Tell me what happened at La Fère.”

“There is no Olivier. There is no La Fère.” Olivier looked at him, his eyes raw from smoke and drink. “I am Athos; I am a soldier and tomorrow I shall die.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Treville. “I won’t let you do this alone.” He would not see this young man slaughtered in the same pointless way his father had been. History must never be allowed to repeat itself.

“I am alone,” said Olivier, reaching behind him for another bottle from his belongings. “Leave me be.”

Treville had no choice but to return to his men. They needed his support more than ever and he would not let them down.

Forcing himself to rest was one thing, but achieving sleep was hopeless, his mind racing through the possibilities of what might have happened that day at La Fère. Why had Anne killed Thomas? Why would Olivier, a man of intellect and compassion, have acted so rashly and hanged his wife on the spot? Treville knew, without doubt, her place of execution. He could picture her swinging from the tree branch, yards away from where he and Olivier had first made love.

When the buglers sounded reveille, Treville forced sore eyes open and splashed water over himself to rouse his tired mind. Today of all days, he needed his wits about him.

“We will position ourselves along this ridge in double ranks,” he told his lieutenants, pointing out a slight crest on the map. “We'll support the cavalry with continuous rounds of musket fire and when the enemy battalions charge we’ll be ready for them.”

“And what if they don't?” Aramis was always the one to ask the difficult questions.

If they didn’t then would Treville be able to watch from above as Olivier de la Fère and his men were shredded into pieces at the walls? He had always followed orders to the letter and what had it achieved so far? A murdered King. Dozens of Musketeers massacred to save one Frenchwoman. A life that grew more empty with each passing day.

“I have no idea, Aramis,” replied Treville, defeated before the battle had even begun. “Ask me again when the time comes.”

“We’ll fight and we’ll win,” declared Porthos. “It’s what we’re here for.”

As the buglers sounded the attack and the troops advanced to position, cannon fire thundered and the earth shook. In twin ranks, the Musketeers lined up, close enough to the walls of La Rochelle to pick off individual targets, and Treville knew that Aramis was impatient to show off his sharpshooting skills.

“Wait,” he ordered, his hand raised as he watched the cavalrymen advance on La Rochelle -- proverbial lambs to the slaughter. “Fire.”

Systematically shooting and then reloading in turn, his men were accurate and deadly. The lives of fellow soldiers hung in the balance and there was no time for tomfoolery or cowardice.

As the Huguenots surged through the breached walls and gates, Treville could wait no longer. Sword raised in the air, he readied his men for attack.

“Charge,” he shouted, leading the assault from the front. 

It was a bloody skirmish and he fought his way forward, musket balls whistling past his head, ears ringing from the sound of cannon fire. Onward and onward, he sliced through flesh, his blade catching as it encountered bone and metal. He could hear the cries of his men as they fell and each one caused him pain, but there was no going back from this.

“Take your soldiers and go,” cried Olivier when he caught sight of him and his voice was hoarse from shouting orders. “Your men will be massacred. You do not belong here.”

“It is the only place I belong,” replied Treville.

The time for talk was over. Carabins and Musketeers fought bravely side by side until the Protestant forces were routed and scuttled back to safety within the town walls. A call for retreat was sounded and Treville now turned his attention to his own company, helping the stretcher bearers carry the wounded to the hospital tents. He had lost a dozen men and at least as many again were seriously wounded. He thanked God that his favourites amongst them, Aramis and Porthos, had survived with only minor injuries. Porthos had come close to losing an eye but had got away with a nasty cut. Aramis was nursing a graze from a musket ball that had side swiped his ribcage. 

Blessed by luck, Olivier remained miraculously unharmed, however his company of cavalry were all but destroyed. “I am a Jonah in all things,” he said wearily.

It was the only biblical reference Treville had ever heard him make. “Wine will not help you,” he said as he watched the man draw deep from a bottle.

“On the contrary, it is the one thing that does,” replied Olivier and those eyes which had once been luminous with life were now as cold as the grave.

Treville remained by his side as he drank himself into a soporific state. “You are more than this,” he murmured as stupor took hold.

Leaving Olivier to sleep it off, Treville did the rounds of his men, checking on the wounded, mourning those who had died at the hands of the surgeons, and rallying the ones who needed their spirits raising.

When he finally stopped to rest--seated next to an unconscious Olivier, determined not to be parted from him--Aramis and Porthos were there to rally him.

“Is he the friend you were searching for last night?” asked Aramis.

Treville nodded and finished up his stew, wiping the bowl clean with a chunk of bread. “His father and I fought side by side at Amiens.”

“What’s his name?” said Porthos.

Treville, weary from everything the day had thrown at him, misunderstood for a moment. “Athos,” he replied and was about to correct himself when he remembered, at the last second, that it was true.

Adrien d'Athos was dead and Oliver de la Fère was gone. Both were lost to Treville and this unfamiliar version of Athos, laid out beside him, was the only thing that remained. Stranger he might be, it was still a wrench not to be able to wrap an arm around that belovéd body and mend his soul with love.

“He fights like a Trojan,” said Porthos, his admiration undisguised. “He should be a Musketeer.”

“There has always been a place for him within our ranks,” replied Treville. “And I will no longer allow him to refuse it.”


	9. Chapter 9

This war of attrition was hopeless. The only sense of achievement Treville gained in months of stalemate was that which came from persuading Athos to join their company, now that his own was destroyed. Even then, it wasn’t as if the man did more than capitulate silently, bone weary, permanently drunk and tormented from deep within.

Having lost another dozen soldiers during a second fruitless attack, it came as a vast relief when Treville was instructed by General de Corbeville to return to Paris.

“The King has countermanded Richelieu's orders. The siege is over,” said the commander. “An inevitable result seeing as the supplies never turned up as promised. How much longer could we be expected to fight a war with no munitions, surviving on scrounged food from the farmers?”

“The goods may have been hijacked by the Huguenots,” said Treville.

“With all their strongholds under siege?” The general seemed understandably sceptical. “I’m certain they were never dispatched. I’m not sure what Richelieu is up to, but I guarantee that it’s far from straightforward.”

“I’ve known the man for some years,” said Treville. “He could quite likely be playing the King off against his enemies.”

“Watch him closely, Captain,” advised the General. “For all our sakes.”

The Musketeers’ return to Paris was a happy one. It was true that they could not march triumphant through the streets, but as a man, they had performed admirably and at least three quarters of the regiment remained intact.

On arrival back at the garrison Treville was expecting to be most concerned about Aramis, certain that conflict would bring to the fore his experiences in Savoy. The young soldier, however, proved to be resilient -- gracious and God-fearing, yet with an unrelenting sense of fun and a merry smile. 

It was instead Treville's newest recruit who was causing him all the headaches. Rather arrogantly perhaps, he’d assumed that time together would allow him to unlock the secrets that troubled Olivier. He tried his hardest to get through, but it proved hopeless and eventually he was forced to concede defeat. It was as if his love had vanished off the face of the earth and in place of him stood a shell of a man, familiar to look at but unknown in every other way.

There were, however, positives to be found. Athos may have been taciturn to the point of morose, but he was proving himself to be a true leader of men. That stony façade was ever present, but beneath it lurked a kind man. Devoted to the Musketeers, he would spend the majority of his hours training the new cadets, only succumbing to the temptations of the tavern once he was officially off duty.

Gradually Aramis and Porthos worked their magic, brotherly love drawing Athos into their fold, and despite missing him--that flame never diminishing--Treville was quietly satisfied to see this happen. The man had always longed for comradeship and now he had finally achieved his wish.

Treville grew to rely on Athos in other ways, trusting him in all things military, his tactical instinct and swordsmanship unsurpassed within the regiment. They spent time together as captain and lieutenant and sometimes--most often when it was late and a decanter of wine had been disposed of--the past reared its head and Treville came close to confessing his everlasting feelings. He never did and was glad of it. Such an admission would have been a mistake. Things were better this way. 

Years passed by without incident and gradually those torrid emotions inside him quietened down to a level that was bearable. No longer fearful of revealing too much, Treville settled firmly into his role, enjoying being in command of the Musketeers. His duties were still closely intertwined with the palace--the cardinal’s Red Guard a growing nuisance--but all things considered, life was good.

 _We two alone_ , had never been further from the truth, he thought, watching from the balcony, as the Inseparables--a collective that Athos, Porthos and Aramis had come to be known by--sparred together in a three way sword fight that was interspersed with laughter. Seeing his favourite soldiers, child-like in their games, would always instill in Treville a sense of paternal pride, but it would forever be tempered with sadness and regret. Successfully separating his love and his lieutenant was a practical solution--Treville was, after all, the most practical of men--but he would forever mourn the loss of Olivier, keeping his broken heart locked away with those letters.

“Captain,” said old Serge, his rheumatic knees creaking as he ascended the steps. “A message from the palace.”

Treville opened the document, reading through it and then sighing at the prospect of a morning spent in court. “Have my horse saddled immediately,” he ordered. “And tell those three ruffians that if there is any damage to property from this session of horseplay I will most certainly be docking their wages to pay for it.”

“Yes, Sir.” Serge chuckled at the sound of breaking glass.

Treville set out for the Louvre in good spirits. Even thoughts of courtly nonsense could not dispel his light-hearted mood, but this was soon to change when he arrived at the palace and entered the state rooms.

“Captain, there is trouble,” said the King, seated forward on his throne, tense with anxiety. “My reputation is at stake and you must deal with it soonest.”

Treville looked askance at Richelieu who slowly unfurled a parchment and then cleared his throat before reading out a string of charges which were levelled squarely at the Musketeers.

“This is nonsense,” retorted Treville.

Beady eyes bright with anticipation the cardinal glared at him. “And yet the weight of evidence says otherwise,” he remarked. “It seems your Musketeers have been combining their duties with other more insalubrious acts to eke out their wages. Highway robbery and murder are crimes that cannot be ignored.” Rolling up the parchment he tapped it against the palm of his hand. “Your men are out of control, Captain. One of them in particular. Have this Athos arrested immediately and brought here to the Louvre.”

“Your Majesty.” Treville turned to the King. “A word if I may.”

“If there are reasons behind this killing spree then perhaps we might all be privy to them,” Richelieu chimed in.

“If there was a killing spree then I can assure you it had nothing to do with Athos or any of my Musketeers,” roared Treville. “This is a case of mistaken identity.”

“Then all will be made clear in court,” said Richelieu.

Ignoring etiquette and taking the King to one side, Treville spoke honestly. “Cornet and his men are overdue, Majesty. They were the soldiers I entrusted to carry out that private matter on your behalf. I was not concerned until now, but this cannot be a coincidence. The criminal who committed these acts may have used Athos’ name, but it was not him. I can vouch that he is the most honourable of men.”

“I couldn’t give a damn about the good character of your soldier,” said Louis, falling headlong into a panic. “If the truth comes to light about my negotiations with Spain then I am finished,” he hissed. “France is finished. Find your men and my letters now, before Richelieu discovers that I have been going against his advice.”

“I will, Sire, but Athos-”

The King silenced him with a raised hand. “Bring your man to trial and I will see that it is a fair one,” he proclaimed, beckoning Richelieu over. “Have your guards go with Treville and arrest the Musketeer Athos,” he said. “We must ensure that this is resolved quickly. I cannot have my own soldiers behaving in such a disgraceful manner.”

Riding through Paris, flanked by a troop of Red Guard, Treville ran through the questions in his head. This was a bloody mess. Someone was out to discredit the Musketeers, but why? And what of Cornet? Answers to this may prove to be their only hope.

“Athos, I’m sorry,” he said as he dismounted in the courtyard. “These men have come to arrest you. You are to be charged with highway robbery and murder. I promised the King there'd be no trouble.”

Athos gazed wide-eyed at him, once again that innocent little boy from La Fère. “I do not understand.”

“It was Athos who killed my father,” said a scruffy young fellow, stepping out from the cover of an overhanging roof.

Treville had no idea who this lad might be, but the last thing they needed was to have yet more evidence being spouted in front of the Red Guard.

“I promise you I did not,” replied Athos in that solemn manner of his. “You have the wrong person. I can assure you I’m not the man you’re looking for.”

“And yet my father named you as his assailant before he died in my arms,” said his accuser. “Why would he do so if it were not the truth?”

“I have no idea,” said Athos, handing over his weapons to Treville.

It was agony to watch him being taken away and Treville's eyes burned as he ascended the steps to his office, with Porthos and Aramis following closely behind him.

“Athos didn't do it,” said Porthos.

“Of course he damn well didn't,” snapped Treville. “You have to find out who did, and also what has happened to Cornet. Neither he nor any of his men have returned from their mission and I am convinced that these things are linked. I must go back to the palace and try and wrangle this out with the King before any rash decisions are made. Do whatever is necessary in order to clear Athos’ name.”

Riding at breakneck speed, Treville returned to the Louvre to find that a court had already been convened, the witnesses lined up ready. Swift this might have been, but justice it most certainly was not.

The trial was a farce and yet it would not have seemed that way to anyone in attendance. There was an abundance of evidence, storybook tales of highway robbery and murder that excited the onlookers. Each witness vowed that Athos was the one behind this and his pleas of innocence and miscarriage of justice fell upon deaf ears.

“An example must be set,” proclaimed the King. “Take this Musketeer to the Châtelet. He will be executed at dawn.”

“Your Majesty,” said Treville, breathing in deeply to calm the rising tide of panic.

“No more pleas for mercy, Captain.” The King frowned at him and then spoke in an undertone. “Find my letters, or all will be lost.”

“Letters, Sire?” questioned Richelieu. “What letters would these be?”

Taking advantage of this dismissal, Treville raced out of the palace. He had more important things to worry about than the King’s confession to Cardinal Richelieu about secret negotiations with Spain. He returned to the garrison, cloistering himself away with Aramis and Porthos once more and trying desperately to find a resolution.

“The boy, d’Artagnan, says he’ll help,” said Porthos. “Something ain’t sitting right with him so we’ll take him with us and see what he comes up with.”

“He seems honest enough, if a trifle impetuous,” added Aramis with a shrug.

Right now Treville couldn’t care less if the Pope went along for the ride. “I don’t give a damn who you involve,” said Treville, pacing the office from window to wall and back again. “Find Cornet and clear Athos’ name. Go, for God's sake. You have hours left in which to do this.” 

In the meantime he would return to the palace and petition the King once more, but first he had a visit to pay.

The Châtelet was a foul place to be incarcerated. Never one to be squeamish, Treville held a handkerchief over his nose to filter out the smells of rotting carcasses from the nearby slaughterhouses. Prison visits were discouraged and simply being captain of the Musketeers was not enough to gain passage through the dank stone corridors. An exchange of coin was the key to entry and an extra sou gained him information as to where precisely Athos was being held.

“Don’t dawdle, Sir,” coughed the warder. “He’s to be put in front of the firing squad in a few hours. He should be grateful for a soldier's death. No chance of a drunk axeman or a drop that isn't high enough to snap his neck.”

Treville had no desire to discuss the pros and cons of capital punishment. He needed to spend time with Athos in case this turned out to be his final day on earth. Lantern lit, he prowled the passageways, avoiding gobbets of spittle from the prisoners who recognised him as their enemy.

Athos was not alone -- a priest was with him at the iron bars of his cell and was doing his best to provide comfort. Remaining hidden in the shadows, Treville listened in to the quiet conversation. It was not an honourable thing to do, to overhear a man's final confession, but as miserable and desperate as he was, he could not tear himself away.

“God will forgive your sins, my son.”

“Do not waste your time with me, Father,” replied Athos.

“To speak to the Lord is never a waste of anyone’s time,” said the priest.

“There was a man,” said Athos and he fell silent.

“And you killed him?”

“I loved him,” said Athos softly. ”I loved him above all others and I always will.”

The priest backed away from the bars, horrified by Athos’ admission. Murder was one thing, but this was a sin too heinous to be forgiven in the eyes of the church. There was no atonement to be made and yet to Treville it was the most wonderful confession he had ever heard. Why did it have to come too late?

“Find some other poor soul who might need your help,” continued Athos. “I do not.”

Holding his biretta to his head the priest scuttled away, eager to be free of his task, probably praying fervently to his maker that he would not be corrupted from standing so close to a sodomite.

“Athos,” said Treville, stepping out of the shadows. “Olivier.” He kept his voice to a low murmur, but he must say what was in his heart, hang the consequences. “My dearest boy.” Reaching between the bars, he placed the open palm of his hand over Athos’ heart in a mirror image of that time they had spent by the river. “I loved you then and I love you now.”

“There are things I need to tell you before I die,” said Athos. 

“You’ve said enough,” replied Treville. “I’ve heard all that I’ve been needing to hear. I must return to the palace and petition the King for your release.”

“Stay here,” said Athos. “I need you with me.”

“And I need you alive,” argued Treville. “If things go badly then I’ll return before dawn. You will not be alone at the end.”


	10. Chapter 10

Treville had done all he could. There would be no last minute reprieve from the King. Without word from Aramis and Porthos all was now lost, and he returned to the Châtelet with a heavy heart in order to spend the final hours of the night with Athos.

For some reason, all he could think of was that little boy, stumbling over the keys of the harpsichord, the back of his hand marked by constant swipes from a willow switch. He had saved him from harm then, but he could not do so now when it mattered most.

“I still have Porthos’ cards on me,” he said, reaching inside his pocket for the deck.

“That should take my mind off the firing squad.” Athos smiled, open hearted and genuine, and Treville loved him with such an intensity that it was as if he was being burned alive by the flame.

They played a childish game of matching pairs, taking a card from each other's hand through the bars and using it as an excuse to exchange brief touches. It was tricky with Athos' wrists secured within a set of iron manacles, but they managed well enough.

“I would have come to you at the garrison,” said Athos. “I was intending to do so.”

“Don’t,” begged Treville, unable to bear the weight of _might have beens_ as the dreadful hour approached. “It is enough that you love me.” Patroclus and Achilles. Achilles and Patroclus. “You and I are all that matters.”

It was nigh on impossible to carry out such a conversation with prisoners in the next door cells and the sounds of booted feet patrolling the passageways, but it had to happen. They could not part without words of love. In the end it was the only confession that mattered.

The guards came to collect Athos early, shoving Treville roughly aside in order to take their prisoner away to the place of execution before the two men had a chance to say goodbye.

“This is wrong,” shouted Treville as the priest led the way up a flight of stone steps. “You are condemning an innocent man to die.”

“Tell it to his Majesty,” said one of the gaolers, grubby and pustulant. “It’s his name on the order.”

“I have,” muttered Treville. He had tried everything in his power, calling on a friendship of old, when he had been Louis’ substitute father and confidante. The King, however, was unrelenting in his determination to have a Musketeer killed as example.

The small courtyard was claustrophobic, those high walls accentuating the noise of the baying spectators. Everyone loved a good execution, but it was only the privileged few who witnessed those carried out within the Châtelet.

Treville stood to one side, watching from above as Athos was pushed against the rough flintstone surface. Refusing a blindfold he faced the troop of soldiers, their guns loaded ready in order to carry out the sentence.

Treville's knees grew weak, his body trembled and his stomach threatened to vomit up its meagre contents as he awaited that dreaded call from the sergeant at arms.

Time ticked by. “Shoot damn you,” shouted Athos, all of him tensed ready for death.

Treville fought to keep his eyes open, determined to watch to the end, and then, from out of nowhere, came a familiar voice.

“Hold your fire.”

Frightened that he might miss the last few seconds of Athos’ life, Treville glanced briefly to his left to see Aramis charging down the flight of stone steps. A document held aloft, the Musketeer marched into the yard, closely followed by Porthos and the young lad with the Gascon name that, for the life of him, Treville could not recall.

“This is a stay of execution signed by the King,” said Aramis triumphantly, handing the order to the governor and then blithely strolling over to Athos. “I wouldn’t be in a such a hurry to die if I were you, my friend. Certainly not when you are the innocent party in all this.”

“Get these chains off him,” shouted Porthos to the surrounding guards. “Do it now unless you want me to beat every last one of you to a pulp.”

No one ignored Porthos in a rage and the men scurried to do his bidding.

Struck dumb with gratitude, Treville looked to the Heavens at a God that was not vengeful, but had ignored their sins, choosing instead to smile down on them. As soon as his legs were steady enough to carry him, he joined his men in the courtyard, eyes fixed on Athos who was resting against Porthos whilst the blacksmith removed the manacles from his wrists. 

What would this mean for them now, wondered Treville. They had loved each other and lost everything. Certain that death was about to separate them, their shared confessions were of far more significance than any ever made to a priest. 

“You need to rest,” said Treville in a gruff voice. “You may have my room for the night.” It was an innocent offer on his part.

“Sounds a better plan than his usual one of getting hammered,” said Porthos. “What do you say, brother? The captain’s quarters have got to be an improvement on that pit you call home.”

“I could do with a comfortable bed,” said Athos. “Stone floors are not the easiest of places to sleep.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Aramis, slipping an arm around Athos’ weary shoulders. “And have no fear, mon ami, for we’ll keep the celebrations going until you’re ready to return to your wicked ways.”

“Perhaps I am ready after all,” said Athos, raising an amused eyebrow.

“In mind rather than in body,” chuckled Aramis, propping him up. “You may not be a dead man walking any longer, but you’re most certainly dead on your feet. Bed is the only place for you.”

“I shan’t argue with that,” said Athos, casting a look Treville’s way.

He was undoubtedly still a rogue and Treville breathed in deeply at the joy of it, the foulness of this place seeming nowhere near as bad now that Athos was safe. 

Back at the garrison, Athos received a rousing and warm welcome from his fellow soldiers who then left him alone to recover in peace. Whilst he was bathing, Treville gathered a selection of foods from the kitchen and then carried them upstairs on a tray. This was far from discreet, but no one here would mistake his actions for anything other than care giving. After such a dreadful time, it would not be considered unusual for a captain to look after his lieutenant and tonight Treville intended to do just that.

When Athos returned from the bathhouse, hair wet and shirt untucked, he looked so youthful that it took Treville’s breath away, reminding him of that day by the river and their first chaste press of lips.

“I’m locking the door,” he said, turning the key, “but do not feel pressured.” He searched awkwardly for the words. “To be intimate.”

Athos threw his jacket onto a chair and perched on the edge of the desk. “We have been intimate in here before,” he said. “I remember it well.” 

“I should never have given you my blessing that day,” said Treville . “I should have kept you to myself.”

Athos shrugged and turned away from him, pouring two glasses of wine from the decanter. “We cannot go back.”

“But you _can_ tell me what happened,” said Treville. “I discovered some time ago that Thomas was killed by Anne and that you had her executed for his murder, but I do not understand how it came about.”

“Do you really need to know?”

“I don’t need to, but I’d like to,” replied Treville. The puzzle piece of history that had turned Olivier into Athos was missing.

“That day we were up at the tree,” said Athos. “You remember it?”

“How could I forget?” said Treville, resting his hand briefly on the small of Athos' back. 

“All of it, I mean,” said Athos, leaning into his touch the way he had always done in the past. “After we were together you thought you saw someone.”

“I imagined I did,” said Treville. It was cold in the room and whilst they were talking, he stacked firewood in the hearth and used a candle to light the kindling. 

“It was not your imagination,” explained Olivier. “It was Thomas. He saw what we had been doing and he bided his time, waiting for the right moment to tell Anne. The day he did so I found her standing over his body with a dagger in her hand. She swore to me that Thomas was in love with her and that he had behaved inappropriately. Maybe it was the truth. Maybe there were other reasons, I’m not certain. She told me that she’d killed him for my sake in order to silence him, but then, in the same breath, she threatened me and said that if I ever accused her of his murder or tried to leave her she would use it against me. Against you and I.” He swallowed his wine and slammed the glass down on the table. “I was furious. I dragged her to the tree and I hanged her myself. I made sure she was dead and I had her buried. I did all this to silence her. I am as guilty of murdering her as she was of murdering Thomas. I am not fit to be yours. I am not fit to be a Musketeer. The firing squad should have finished their task today.”

It wasn’t only wars that destroyed innocence, thought Treville. This was a difficult story to hear, impossible for him to imagine his beautiful boy so unhinged with anger, but it did nothing to alter his feelings.

“Athos,” he said, encouraging the man to his feet and into his arms. “Anne killed your brother and you hanged her for committing that crime. The rest is unimportant. No one has judged you. You have not been found wanting.”

“A lie,” replied Athos. “For I am wanting in so many ways.”

“Then want _me_ ,” said Treville. “Want me as I want you. I don’t give a damn if we're the worst of all sinners, the only thing that matters is that I need you. What do you say, my dearest?”

“Yes,” replied Athos solemnly. “Of course I say yes.”

“Thank God for that,” said Treville, the happiest he had ever been. Leaning in close he kissed Athos, luxuriating in his mouth then running the tip of his tongue over that faint scar on his lip. “Let’s go to bed and start as we mean to go on.”

“There is no place I would rather be,” said Athos sincerely, taking hold of Treville’s hands and leading him to another secluded haven.

Treville had seen Athos stripped naked once before, as youthful and beautiful as Ganymede, but undressing him piece by piece and seeing him as he was now was fantasy made real. Corded with sinew and muscle, marked from musket wounds and sword swipes, Athos was every bit a man and twice as desirable for it.

Dotting the web of scars with myriad kisses, Treville continued on with his journey, suckling at spongy flesh and then letting his mouth come to rest an inch before his goal. Athos moaned in frustration and Treville settled him with a telling look and a firm squeeze of the hand. He complied immediately, falling silent and stifling the natural response to his frustration.

Still clothed, Treville straddled his naked body, tenderly kissing the bruises on each wrist and then clamping both arms upwards. 

Breath hitching in his throat Athos gazed at him, his pupils blown with desire.

Treville unfastened his breeches and pushed at Athos’ arms outwards until he was spread cruciform beneath him. “You want me to have you like this?” he breathed.

Athos smiled and those eyes grew impossibly dark. “Have me any way you wish. I am yours.”

Treville had known love and he had known desire, but he had never in all his days imagined the power contained within sex. With Athos surrendering completely, he explored him as he had explored the estates of La Fère, learning every inch of his body. The taste of it. The feel of it beneath his fingertips.

There was no room for sleep that night. They were adventurers sailing forth to foreign lands, setting out on new paths of discovery. Joining bodies was the final expedition and covered in each other, slick with oil, Treville took Athos on his side, an arm clamped around him, a hand touching and teasing as he inched inside, crying out with delight at this sinful act that only brought them closer to Heaven.

Morning found the two men bleary eyed but happy. Hands locked together they dozed in each other's arms until the sounds of the waking city grew too loud to ignore. 

“The men will be up soon,” said Treville.

“Then I must take my leave of you.” Athos clambered unwillingly out of bed, pissing into the pot and washing himself in a bucket of cold water.

“I could watch you all day,” said Treville, his hands tucked behind his head. “Spoilsport,” he added as Athos got dressed.

“You would have me train your soldiers in my birthday suit?” smiled Athos, yanking back the bedcovers. “Time to get up, Jean. The world is waiting for us.”

And indeed it was -- a happy world, complex from secrets but full of newfound delights. Contentment forged Treville into a better man and a better commander. Punishing Athos when necessary was not a problem. He was treated the same as the rest of the Musketeers, the only difference being that on occasion, when they had time, the discipline was something that continued later in private. 

The more they learned about each other the closer they became, the sex between them reaching impossible new highs. So far, there was only one thing that Treville refused to do.

“Blindfold me,” begged Athos, his arms bound to the struts of the headboard.

“Absolutely not,” said Treville with a determined shake of the head. His greatest pleasure was to drown in those eyes as he sank deep into Athos’ body. “My own dearest man,” he murmured as he knelt between spread thighs and bent his head.


	11. Chapter 11

Pacing the room like a caged animal, Treville tried to piece together a solution to this problem. Seeing the Duke and Duchess of Savoy today had not been easy on his nerves.

“Talk to me,” said Athos.

Treville reached for the decanter, but Athos moved it to one side. “Not a good idea,” he said, placing it, out of harm’s way, on a shelf. “That is my way of coping, not yours.”

Slumping down into his seat, Treville rested his head in his hands. “Some days it’s the only thing to do.”

“Truth is the best healer,” replied Athos. “As you yourself have taught me.” He leant across the desk, arms braced. “If you will not talk to me then I shall talk to you. I believe that Aramis is your constant reminder and that Savoy is the massacre which has burdened you for so many years.”

“What of it,” snapped Treville. “There is nothing can be done about it now, except keep quiet on the matter.”

He stood up and paced the office once more, hands clasped tightly behind his back, fingers woven together. His ghosts had returned to haunt him with a vengeance. Damn Marsac. Damn that belligerent oaf and his bloody wife. Damn everyone and everything.

“You must tell Aramis the truth of what happened that night,” said Athos. “He trusts Marsac. They suffered together.”

“At my hands. Is that what you wish to say?” snapped Treville, spiteful from his own self hatred.

“Not at all,” said Athos, catching Treville in the circle of his arms. “Calm yourself, Jean. I told you many years ago that this was not your burden to bear. You were acting under orders. Whose were they?”

“None of your business.” 

Treville tried his best to pull away but Athos held fast. “You told me once that I was your compass,” he said quietly. “Then let me guide you now. Tell Aramis the truth.”

“I cannot,” sighed Treville. “It is not my truth to tell.” He gave up all attempts at resistance and moulded himself against Athos. “I betrayed my own men.”

They hastened away from each other at the sound of a knock on the unlocked door of the office. It was imperative that they never forget themselves.

“Trust Aramis and he will understand,” advised Athos in a low voice.

“I cannot,” said Treville. Aramis had already been betrayed and he could not bear it if anyone else was to come to harm over this. Secrecy was vital. As long as the spy Cluzet remained locked away in the Bastille all would be well.

“Then I will intercede on your behalf,” said Athos, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

Treville tried hard not to listen to the conversation carrying on outside his office, but even the sound of driving rain on the roof tiles could not mask Aramis’ angry words.

“I need to speak to the Captain right now.”

“He is busy,” replied Athos. “Speak to me instead.”

Aramis let out a snort of frustration. “I do not have to confront you with the butchering of twenty of my friends. The evidence is there in front of us, Athos. You yourself told me that Savoy bears my scar on his back. We know from the mercenary that Treville was the one who gave away our position. All records of that night are missing. Everything Marsac has said is true.”

“The captain is the finest man I’ve ever met,” growled Porthos. “I’d rather be on his side than Marsac’s any day.”

“Even though he’s responsible for the death of dozens of Musketeers?”

“We haven’t heard his side of the story yet,” said Porthos.

“Because he’s too _busy_ to tell us,” retorted Aramis, his footsteps drumming repetitively across the wooden walkway. “Or too ashamed.”

“Do not judge him before you know the facts,” said Athos earnestly. “I have known the captain since I was a child, and I swear to you that he is the best of men. Please do not doubt him now when he needs you most.”

“When I needed him most he was absent,” said Aramis.

“Not so, brother,” Porthos reminded him gently. “You’ve told me many a time how kind he was to you after what happened in Savoy.”

“He was,” admitted Aramis. “He was indeed.”

Treville could bear this no longer. He trusted all three of these men implicitly. They deserved his honesty and his loyalty more than anyone in this sorry world.

Taking a deep breath, for fortitude's sake, he opened the door, ready at last to tell the truth and shame the devil in the process.

“You need to know what happened,” he said to Aramis as he ushered them inside his office. “You are right. I am ashamed and I am remorseful. Not a day goes by that I am not filled with regret, but at the time I was convinced by Richelieu that it was the only course of action to take.”

“Go on,” said Aramis and his eyes were dark with memory. 

Looking at him, Treville could hardly recognise that cocksure boy who'd joined his company, overflowing with brash bravado. Most of the time he was there on the surface, full of himself and funny with it, but nowadays it was nothing but a cleverly constructed façade. The real Aramis had been missing for years and today the mask was gone.

“There was a spy,” he continued. “One of our most important. Over the years she had passed us vital information, but her identity had been unearthed by a counterpart from Savoy and she was in danger. We had to seize their man to stop him from telling the Duke and so the Cardinal came up with a plan. His idea was to send out a troop of Musketeers on a training exercise then have the spy tell Savoy that they were a group of French assassins out to depose him and have him replaced by his son, Louis Amadeus.”

“We had no idea,” said Aramis as he stared out of the window. “We were helpless. Animals awaiting slaughter.”

“I know and I am bitterly ashamed,” said Treville. He had trusted them so far. He must tell them the rest. “I was ordered to do this by the King in order to keep his sister, Christine Marie, safe.”

“The Duchess is our spy,” said Athos with a frown. “I am surprised. She seems devoted to her husband.”

“She is loyal to France,” replied Treville. “If Cluzet had revealed her identity then the Duke would have had her executed.”

“Cluzet is the name of their spy?” said Athos, glancing upwards. “Is he being held in the Bastille?”

“Yes.” Treville nodded.

“Then we must move him immediately,” said Athos. “Savoy and Gontard know he is there. Porthos, come with me now. Aramis, you need to sort this out with Marsac before he becomes even more of a problem. Whatever it takes, make him understand.”

Half their party now departed, Treville was left alone with Aramis. Athos was a clever man to manipulate the situation this way and he cursed him for it, although in part he was grateful for the opportunity to apologise in private.

“I will do as Athos says and explain things to Marsac,” said Aramis, a hand wrapped around the back of his neck. “I cannot be certain he’ll listen, but there is a chance. He was a good soldier once and a good friend of mine.” He looked up suddenly. “They all were.”

“I can only apologise,” said Treville. “If there was any restitution I could make-”

“I think we have both suffered enough, Captain,” said Aramis, managing a lacklustre smile. “But thank you for telling me the truth. It helps. I hope it will help Marsac also.”

Comforted by this, Treville nodded in gratitude. There was no way of recompensing either man for all the pain they had suffered, but in time the wounds might heal. Athos and he had both learned a similar lesson from the past. Hopefully now they could all look to the future.

Still partly expecting to be confronted by an angry Marsac, out for revenge, Treville rode to the palace and requested an immediate audience with the King. With the cardinal's snake eyes fixed on him from his place behind the throne, he explained that all was well and that France was in safe hands with the Musketeers as her guardians. It was good to get one over on Richelieu and Treville felt free for the first time in years.

His journey back to the garrison was also without incident, that is until he reached his office where he was immediately confronted by a very icy Athos.

“You should have waited for me before going anywhere,” the man said, keeping his voice low and controlled to disguise his temper. “You know Marsac is irrational. We neither of us have any clue whether Aramis has been successful at talking him around.”

“I had business with the King,” said Treville, locking the door. “And now I have business with you.”

“Do not try and sweet talk your way out of this,” said Athos, striding towards him. “You put your life at risk.”

Treville shrugged off the danger. “I trust all went according to plan with Cluzet,” he said. _I trust_. Two very important words. 

“It did,” replied Athos and his hands were on Treville now, sweeping over him in determined strokes.

“And there is no need to be overly concerned about the other business as we both know that Aramis will have convinced Marsac.”

“I suppose so.” Grudgingly, Athos let his lips twist into a smirk. “That man can convince the birds down from the trees.”

“Then, as I told the King, all is well and we are safe.” 

There was no more need for words and Treville allowed himself to be pushed back against the door, ceding control for once, with Athos’ lips at his throat and a future for them firmly in his sights. 

Following on from this day of revelation, the discreet turn of the key happened more often than ever. After a quarter of a century of knowing one another, they had finally arrived at their true beginning -- a partnership in every way.

None of the Musketeers found it unusual that the two men spent so much time together. To the world they were captain and lieutenant, good friends and devoted brothers-in-arms, but in private they were much much more. Erastes and eromenos now a faded memory, they became all things to each other and would remain so, above all else, until death chose to separate them.

But that was not going to happen for many years down the line, Treville knew with certainty, trying to hide his smile as Athos arrived unexpectedly in his office with a full decanter and two glasses.

“What are you doing here?” he barked, although it was hard to disguise his pleasure at the impromptu visit. “You’re supposed to be watching the eclipse with the Royal family.”

Athos smirked. “The King and Queen are happy together, doting on their precious son, and they won't even notice I’m missing. They have an entire regiment of Musketeers there to guard them, so what could possibly go wrong?”

It was peaceful in the garrison with everyone gone for the day. No sound of swords clashing in the training yard. Not even a whinnying from the stables. 

“Shall we watch from the balcony?” asked Treville, striding across the room towards the door, fingers poised at the handle. 

“I think perhaps the view would be best from bed,” suggested Athos as he poured the wine, his face transformed by a roguish grin.

Treville returned the smile and loosened the fastenings on his doublet. 

There would be other eclipses.

\---end


End file.
